


If Fate Should Reverse Our Positions

by Luzula



Series: If Fate Should Reverse Our Positions [1]
Category: Flight of the Heron - D. K. Broster
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battlefield Violence, Duty, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Honor, M/M, Plotty, Podfic Available, Romance, Slow Burn, Swordfighting, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 70,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/pseuds/Luzula
Summary: In July of 1745, Charles Edward Stuart lands in Scotland, but he does not come alone: a regiment of the Irish Brigade is with him. And thus is the course of history changed, for Britain and for Keith and Ewen.
Relationships: Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham
Series: If Fate Should Reverse Our Positions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971424
Comments: 23
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue: A Sodden, Cloud-enfolded Landscape

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't stomach the warning (or if you want to have your cake and eat it, too), know that there is also an alternate ending that branches off fairly late in the fic, and in which there is no major character death--see the second fic in the series. It replaces Part V (AO3 chapter 6) and onwards. 
> 
> This is the most ambitious thing I have ever written, both when it comes to length and to plot, and I am quite proud of it! I am also very grateful to my three beta readers: Garonne, Hyarrowen, and Regshoe, who have all equally helped me by cheerleading, brainstorming, and by insightful beta comments. They have spotted anachronistic word choices, plot issues that needed to fixed, and helped me with the setting, from birds to the interior of Age of Sail ships. A special thanks to Garonne for help with the Gaelic, and to Solo for help with the brief Scots dialogue! 
> 
> I feel that I need to thank yet one more person: the military historian Christopher Duffy. Without his extremely detailed book _Fight For a Throne: the Jacobite '45 Reconsidered_ from 2015, I could probably never have written this fic—I hope he wouldn't mind the use to which I have put it, heh. This goes both for details of setting and details of plot—very occasionally, I have even borrowed a phrase from him. I've read lots of other books about the period as well, but this is the one I constantly used as a reference. There are also a couple of sentences borrowed from Broster, when I wanted to reference canon, or when I felt that I couldn't put it better myself. 
> 
> I wanted to have the same structure as canon, with prologue, five parts that are divided into chapters, and then an epilogue, but unfortunately AO3 won't let me have that sort of two-tiered structure, so I've had to make do with the AO3 chapters as the parts, and subdivided within that as makeshift chapters. Annoyingly enough, since I also have a prologue, this means that the parts and the AO3 chapters have different numbers. *sigh* 
> 
> I've put some historical notes after each part; you can assume that Duffy is my source for these, unless otherwise stated. Please do tell me if you spot any errors, though, or ask if you have questions. 
> 
> Aside from the historical divergence, this is also an AU in that Ewen and Alison broke off their engagement about a year before the beginning of the story.

The sun had all but reached its highest point, and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky above the vast plains of Flanders, which, were it not for the marks of human habitation and industry, might have been as featureless and flat as the sea. But those marks were many: it was a fertile and prosperous land, densely populated, with large cities and towns, and plenty of ploughed farmland to support them. 

The inhabitants of that rich land were unfortunate enough to live near one of those lines which humankind have drawn across the earth, convinced that they have an even greater importance than rivers, mountain ranges, or seashores, and over the last few months, following the battle of Fontenoy in May 1745, that line had shifted to the north, favouring France. It had taken the effort of an army of fifty thousand, resisted by as many others, and after Fontenoy, Tournai had fallen, and then Ghent, Oudenaarde and Bruges in rapid succession. 

The British troops were now ensconced in a camp nearer Brussels, their commanders conferring with the other Allied generals on how to win back the contested lands. But, however, a cloud had recently appeared in the sky of the Hanoverian Government in London. It was small, and no doubt would be only a minor annoyance, compared to the real troubles in Flanders, but to avoid the inconvenience of being rained upon, perhaps some companies would have to be diverted to Scotland. Or, at most, a whole regiment. 

A message which ultimately concerned these companies was making its way through the British camp, and the young ensign carrying that message hurried along the straight rows of tents, with red-coated soldiers walking in the churned-up mud of the lanes between them, and by means of the regimental colours planted by the tents, he found the man he was seeking. 

'Captain Windham, sir?' said the ensign. 

The man in question looked up. It was difficult to say whether the frown on his face was there because he was obliged to squint against the sun, or because he was frustrated by the months it had taken to recover from the wound he had, most honourably, incurred at Fontenoy. 

'Yes?' he said shortly. 

'I have a message for you, sir.' The ensign waited while he read the message, which in itself revealed little: it was only an order to come to his colonel's tent at one o'clock. 

'Thank you, I have no reply to make,' he told the ensign, dismissing him. 

Punctually at one o'clock, the sentry at the tent of Lieutenant-General St Clair, who was also the Colonel of the Royal Scots, announced the arrival of Captain Windham. James St Clair was in his late fifties, a Scotsman who had spent most of his life in the British army, first entering as an ensign at the tender age of six, though that was in the days when entering children on the rolls early in order to gain seniority was still allowed. He had been Captain Windham's commanding officer for the last eight years, and had earned his respect, for he was both competent and fair to his subordinates. 

'Come in, Captain,' said St Clair. 'I have had a meeting with Cumberland. News has reached us from London that the young Stuart Pretender has landed in Scotland, with some few troops from France. But still, it seems an absurd attempt.' 

Captain Windham wondered how this might possibly concern him. 'Yes, sir?' 

'Guise's 6th is garrisoning the Highland forts, but as a precaution, they will be reinforced. Two new companies of Royals have been recruited in Ireland, and one of them lacks a captain.' 

St Clair's subordinate began to have a sinking feeling about where this conversation might be leading, but he waited and said nothing. 

'You distinguished yourself at Fontenoy,' continued St Clair, 'and I assure you 'twill be remembered. But for the moment, we need an experienced captain to take these recruits in hand, together with Captain Scott, who is already with them.' 

'Yes, sir,' said Captain Windham, for what else could he say? But he was not much looking forward to this new posting. 'You may depend upon me.' 

'Good,' said St Clair briskly. 'In a few days, a Navy ship will take you from Ostend to Inverness, where the recruits are also heading. You will, together with Captain Scott, make all haste to bring the reinforcements along the Great Glen to Fort Augustus and Fort William.' 

He was showing Windham a rough map with these features marked out, along with General Wade's road along the remarkably straight glen running north-east to south-west. 

Keith Windham nodded. 'And is there any intelligence about what resistance we may expect?' 

'This attempt will surely be a mere flash in the pan, for none of the large clans could be foolhardy enough to commit themselves, no matter how Jacobite their sentiments are. But no doubt there may be a few young hotheads among the MacDonalds or Camerons. Besides the commander of Fort George, you should consult with Duncan Forbes, the laird of Culloden, when you arrive at Inverness—he is firmly in the Government interest, besides knowing the country well, and will be able to tell you of any further developments before you march.' 

'Yes, sir, I'll do so.' 

'Scott, of course, will have the command, but I rely upon you to be vigilant and to train up the recruits well.' 

'Yes, sir,' said Windham again, but with no real enthusiasm. If he had to be sent away from Flanders to this barbarous corner of the nation, there to moulder away in a fort, Captain Windham wished he could at least have had the command of the mission. But Captain Scott, of course, was senior to him, so he must resign himself to being second. 

Dismissed, Windham went back to his tent. 

While the commanders deliberated on weightier matters, the captains and younger subalterns of the Royal Scots spent that evening drinking, gambling over cards, and commiserating with Captain Windham over his unfortunate orders. 

'Damned poor thanks for what you did at Fontenoy,' opined Captain Havelock, a senior captain in the regiment. By way of consolation, he filled up his fellow captain's wine-glass, which was empty. 

Keith grunted non-committally. In truth, he agreed, but did not wish to criticise his colonel in public. 'Perhaps there may be some chance to distinguish myself there, too.' 

'Among those Highland savages? They will never stand to face a volley,' said another captain, who was a Lowland Scot. One of the lieutenants, who was in fact a Highlander from Sutherland, looked darkly at him, but as he was new, and low in seniority, he said nothing. 

Captain Havelock filled the glass of the woman by his side, a quite beautiful young camp follower who had been his companion for a while, and they smiled at each other. He had shown her his appreciation by buying her new clothes and jewellery, which were considerably finer than her previous ones. Windham wondered idly when she would abandon him for someone with higher rank, or more money. Or perhaps Havelock would do the abandoning. 

The conversation shifted to speculations about the intentions of the allied Dutch commanders, and the latest movements of the French. Keith threw in a word now and then, with the dry wit that often made his fellow officers laugh. His glass was still half full—if he had a vice, it was not drinking, although he hardly abstained from it, either. Nor was it gambling, or women. 

In fact, though his nature was at bottom passionate and impulsive, he had become as disillusioned, as little prone to enthusiasms, as a man of twice his age. If he had a passion left in life, it was military ambition. 

Captain Windham departed the next morning, and the day after that reached Ostend, where the flat sea met the flat land. The salt wind blew in from the west, and beyond the dikes that secured the town from the depredations of the sea, the silty and grey-green water was choppy with white-topped waves. 

His stallion baulked at crossing the ship's gang-plank, though it was broad: the horse knew what was to come. The sailors kept clear of him, and did not offer to help, for the horse looked as though he would gladly kick them for their trouble. 

'I know,' murmured Keith sympathetically. 'You hate to be at sea, and I can't say I'm eager to get on board, either. But there's no help for it. Come on.' 

He took a carrot from the saddlebag, and by dint of calm, continuous talking, got his nervous steed on board the ship, with a sort of patience he did not often show to his fellow men. 

'I'll look after him myself,' he assured the lieutenant who welcomed him aboard. 

The passage took a week and a half, during which time Keith kept mostly to himself. He had not kept up with his journal lately, and took advantage of this leisure to catch up. Observations on the war and his experience of it, comments on his fellow officers and men which it would not have been politic to utter aloud, and occasionally little sketches, filled its pages. He also wrote a letter to his young step-brother, which he would leave with the mail onboard, for doubtless it would reach its destination faster by ship than if he posted it overland from Inverness. 

The weather was changeable, but according to the ship's officers, the wind was generally favourable, though not always as strong as they would like. Gulls followed the ship, fighting over scraps thrown out from the galley, and some grey, black-eyed bird with curiously stiff wings, which he felt sure was not a gull, though he did not know its name. 

Keith's first sight of Scotland was of the north-eastern Lowlands, and he thought they did not look as barbarous as he had been expecting. He wondered where his father's friend, for whom he had been named, had been from—he knew very little about him, save his name and that he had died on a Flanders battlefield. 

But as they came into the Beauly Firth, on a blustery evening with occasional showers, he saw the environs of the little town of Inverness disfigured by the frowning shoulders of mountains, round which hung dark rainclouds, as though attracted by them. Captain Windham pitied the officers who had their permanent posts in those forts, isolated in these savage and wild lands—at least his was only to be a temporary assignment. For he had no notion of the meeting that awaited him among this scenery which so displeased him, and which would so change his life. 

And so this first representative of the British Army in Flanders, the commanders of which would soon realise that the companies of recruits they had sent were a very inadequate shield against the coming rebellion, stepped onto the quay at Inverness. His stallion followed, looking somewhat unsteady on his legs. 

The sun sank behind the craggy mountains in the west, among clouds that glowed a bloody red. From the other shore of the River Ness, they were watched by the black and beady eyes of a heron, which stood on one leg, having drawn its other leg, as well as its long neck, into the fluffed-up grey feathers of its body.


	2. Part I: A Species of Bondage

Captain Windham had spent a week with that Highlander who had captured him by the side of Loch Oich, and though he felt such an unexpected liking for the man, he meant to spend no more time in his company, for his parole was now at an end, and it was his duty to hazard an escape. 

Having written Ewen Cameron a note, Captain Windham fastened his captor's kilt more securely with a pin he had found, so that it would not slip off, and ventured downstairs. The house was in a bustle, and Windham, feigning to be intent on some errand, made for the door. 

His impersonation of a Cameron clansman would scarcely hold up to a more sustained scrutiny—he was sure that the folds of that ridiculously oversized plaid were not correctly arranged—but more importantly, should he meet with Ardroy or Lochiel, or any number of other Camerons who knew him by sight, he would instantly be apprehended. Or, in the case of Lachlan, possibly skewered. 

However, by great good luck Keith gained the door without meeting any of them. Outside the house, the bustle was even wider in scope, since apparently preparations were in train for some of the makeshift army to depart again. The Highlanders were settling into the surroundings, there to lie in their plaids for the night, but the Irish Brigade, doubtless used to more civilised camps in the French service, were setting up their tents along the shore where the ground was reasonably flat. He made in their direction, since they would be less likely to unmask him. 

But, passing a pile of broadswords from the arms the Pretender's son had brought, Keith could not resist availing himself of one of them. Who knew what he would meet with between this place and Fort William? He regretted his pistols, taken from him at Loch Oich side, but this sword would be much better than nothing. 

Windham looked up to see that this brief lapse in attention had been unwise, for there, striding towards him not very far away, was Ardroy, his tall figure unmistakeable. His heart pounding, Keith immediately turned the other way and began to walk unconcernedly away, for he had nothing to cover his face, not even a bonnet to pull down on his brow. This was devilish bad luck...but perhaps he had not been seen. 

This hope, however, was soon dashed. 'Windham! Stop!' 

Keith did stop, for if he ran he would no doubt draw attention and be caught directly, being still in the middle of camp. Not that he would get away at all, now, but by gad, having been weaponless for a week he would not give up his sword again without a fight. 

He turned, defiant, and wrenched off his encumbrance of a plaid, leaving him in shirt and kilt. 

'If you mean to make me a prisoner again, you must take me first!' exclaimed Keith, drawing the sword from its sheath. 

'Captain Windham,' said Ardroy, his voice conciliatory, 'this is surely not necessary. You are surrounded by an army—no one would blame you for giving yourself up again.' 

'Would you give yourself up without a fight?' parried Windham. 

Having evidently no answer to this, Ardroy muttered something about this being his fault, having forgotten that Windham's parole was running out, and finally obliged him by drawing his sword. 

They had by this time drawn an audience. One of Ardroy's clansmen asked him something in Gaelic, and by his gestures Keith surmised that he was offering to circle round and hit Keith in the head with the butt of his musket. To Keith's relief, Ardroy shook his head sharply. The onlookers retreated, forming a circle round them. 

'Very well, then.' Ardroy raised his sword, and Keith advanced upon him. 

Keith found that his memory of the young laird's prowess with that broadsword of his was not at all exaggerated—damn the man, how did he handle it so lightly? But Keith was not, as at their first meeting, lame or incapacitated by a blow to the head, and he now gave a rather better account of himself. By stretching his abilities to the utmost, he managed not to retreat, and kept Ardroy at bay—but for how long he would be able to do so, he did not know. Keith's heart was pounding hard with the exhilaration of the fight, his breath harsh in his throat. 

Their audience was shouting in encouragement, evidently enjoying this unexpected evening entertainment. But the match was decided in the end not by either of the opponents, but by Keith's nether garment, the pin on which was now strained beyond its capacity.

As the kilt slid lower on his hips, Keith saw Ardroy trying to smother a grin, and, seizing this chance, Keith managed at last to get under his guard and wrench his sword from his hand. But as it went flying, the kilt's fastening gave way completely. 

Keith stumbled on the kilt that had tangled round his feet and fell forward ignominiously to the ground, to the cheers and whistles of the onlookers. Ardroy, still on his feet, was not late in putting his foot on Keith's sword. 

No doubt having exposed his white English behind to all Clan Cameron, Keith tugged his shirt down and the kilt up again, his face burning—he could even see women among the onlookers. 

Ewen Cameron seemed to be doing his absolute best to keep his face sober, and almost succeeding. 'You have won the bout, Captain Windham, but I'm afraid you have lost your liberty again.' 

'I've won the bout, have I?' Keith stood up with one hand securing his compromised modesty. 'That is generous of you—I rather think your kilt has defeated us both.' 

And at that, Ardroy gave up his struggle against levity, and his laughter burst out. Having recovered, he said, 'Oh, I do beg your pardon, Captain Windham! I am not laughing at you, only at—at the circumstances.' 

With a few words in Gaelic, he gestured at their audience, and, when they did not obey, frowned and expressed his order more firmly. They reluctantly dispersed, for which Keith was grateful. 

'Will you forgive me for laughing?' said Ardroy earnestly, not looking down at the kilt. 

Keith found his compunction rather charming. 'Indeed, I forgive you—I think I almost provoked you to it.' 

Ardroy looked relieved. 'Thank you. Now, I do not wonder that you took advantage of my inattention, but since you were unfortunate enough to be caught, you understand that it is my duty to take you prisoner again?' 

Keith nodded briefly—he had known that his attempt to escape was a gamble, and he had lost it. 

'Will you give me your parole again?' continued Ardroy. 'I understand that you do not wish to give it for the space of the campaign, but perhaps for a week again? 'Tis always possible that there may be an exchange of prisoners, though I don't know of any of our side that have been taken. If there is, you may depend upon it that I'll put you forward for it.' For they neither of them knew yet that King George's Government would refuse to set up a cartel. 

Keith considered his position. Chivalrous as he was, Ardroy had not threatened him with the alternative, which was no doubt to be guarded and perhaps tied up—a state Keith was not eager for. And now that he had lost this chance at escape, his captor would be vigilant against another try. No, refusing his parole would serve no purpose. 

'I give it, then,' assented Captain Windham. 'For the space of one week.' 

Ardroy smiled in relief. As they had done a week ago, they shook hands on it, Keith feeling that if he must needs give his parole, this was a man whom he would trust to hold it. 

'Now, we must make haste.' Ardroy turned and headed with long strides towards Fassefern House. 'I am to lead a force leaving tonight—we will just fetch our baggage and some dinner to take with us. And perhaps, since we will be riding, you'll wish to...wear something more suitable.' This time he kept his voice strictly neutral. 

So he was not to sleep under a roof tonight. Keith suppressed his questions; he was hardly in a position to seek information on what were, after all, military matters. 

At the entrance to the house stood Lochiel and MacDonald of Keppoch. 'There you are, Ewen!' Lochiel said. 'I was wondering where you had got to.' 

Hiding behind Ewen Cameron would hardly do, and Keith felt himself flushing again as he held his kilt up, with Ardroy's plaid under his other arm. But Lochiel, ever the gentleman, only raised his eyebrows ever so slightly at Keith's attire, though Keppoch gave a broad smile, which, however, he quickly smothered. 

'Captain Windham was...availing himself of my inattention,' explained Ardroy. 'His parole had run out, and I am ashamed to say I had forgot it. However, he did not get far, and has given his parole for another week.' 

'That is well,' said Lochiel. 'We will join you at the Moy ford tomorrow. Godspeed, my dear Ewen.' 

Windham found himself wondering what this makeshift army's chain of command was to be like—he supposed Lochiel was Ardroy's superior, but what a way to address a junior officer! And no one, of course, could fault that young man's loyalty and zeal, but he was after all very inexperienced. 

Back in the garret, Keith quickly donned his breeches and stockings again while Ardroy politely turned his back. But Keith had forgotten his letter and the reimbursement for the stolen clothes, which apparently Ardroy had found and perused while Keith changed. 

'Did you intend to insult me?' Ardroy's voice was full of barely suppressed anger, holding out the three offending guineas. 

'No, indeed!' replied Keith hastily. 'I had stolen your clothes, and had to recompense you for it somehow.' 

'They are hardly worth this much,' said Ardroy coldly, and those striking blue eyes seemed glacial now. 'Take them back, I pray you.' 

Keith did so. Damn his touchy Highland pride! But Keith was back in uniform now, and so armoured, felt he could face any number of incensed Highlanders. 

Back in the camp, he found that Ardroy was not to be the sole commander of the departing force: a company of the Irish Brigade was preparing the train of heavy baggage under the command of one of their captains, in his forties and presumably an experienced officer. Keith surmised that the main body of the army was to take a more mountainous route that avoided Fort William, but that was inaccessible to the baggage train, which would then have to run the gauntlet of the fort. Hence the heavy guard of Camerons and the night-time departure. 

It was not dark yet, but by the time they reached Fort William it no doubt would be—or at least as dark as these Highland summer nights ever got. But it seemed the weather would be on their side, for dark clouds were piling up, threatening rain. 

As the carts of the baggage train made their way along the shore, Captain Windham exchanged a few pleasantries with the Irish officer, who introduced himself as Captain Quinn of the regiment of Clare. That officer generously remarked in a broad Irish accent that with only two companies of raw recruits, he was sure no officer might be blamed for losing control of them, when they were of a sudden attacked. Windham was grateful to him for making no reference to the size of the opposing force. They established that they had both been at Fontenoy, though on opposing sides and on different fronts of the battle, and expressed admiration for their regiments' respective achievements—indeed, the assault led by the Irish Brigade was as celebrated as the steady British retreat under fire, for they had lost six hundred men and a fourth of their officers. They parted with a few polite concluding remarks when Captain Quinn's attention was claimed by a sergeant. 

Windham found the red coats of the Irish Brigade to be somewhat disconcerting. To be sure they had a slightly different cut, but still, seen from the corner of the eye, or from a distance, they looked so like the soldiers of his own side that it was a jolt to see the white cockades or armbands that proclaimed their allegiance. Though they were in the French service, he had never personally faced them across a line of battle. 

The Camerons ranged with springy steps alongside the even column of Irish redcoats, or indeed before and behind it, with no sort of order. But Captain Windham still found it difficult to be as dismissive of them as he had been on the way to Glenfinnan—for one thing, those laughable ancient muskets, many with broken stocks or missing ramrods, that had been excavated from thatched roofs and other ingenious and illegal hiding places all over the Cameron lands, had been replaced with very serviceable arms from the Pretender's ships. But could they handle them? That remained to be seen. The same went for their broadswords—they could hardly all be as proficient with those as Ardroy was. 

Thus reminded of his captor, he urged his horse on to join him where he rode tall and straight-backed at the head of the column, Lachlan and his piper close at his side. 

He looked preoccupied, but as they still had not drawn close to the fort, Keith ventured to address him—he wished to square the matter of the money with him. As Ardroy held his parole, he would be spending one more week in his company, and that would be the more uncomfortable if the man were angry with him. But hopefully his temper would by now have cooled off. 

'Mr Cameron,' began Keith, 'I hope you do not think I meant to insult you over the matter of the money earlier. Indeed that was not my intent—having taken your clothes, I did not wish to be a thief, and for my own peace of mind I had to leave you something. And I had no idea what they were worth.' 

Ardroy frowned slightly, but relented. 'I will accept your explanation, Captain Windham—please, consider it forgotten.' 

'Thank you, I shall,' replied Keith. 

For Captain Windham was not to know that Ewen Cameron had by now almost forgotten about the money—Keith had, in his letter, loosed another shaft which had struck deeper, namely, the reminder of Ewen's being 'unaccustomed to military life'. On this, the first real command that Lochiel had entrusted him with, Ewen was anxious to succeed, and the thought of the guns at the fort weighed heavily on his mind. It was hardly a good omen that he had begun by forgetting when his prisoner's parole ran out. 

As well, he felt intimidated by the experienced English officer riding at his side, and had no wish to incur the barbs of his wit, which he ordinarily might shrug off easily enough, but which on this occasion would be difficult to bear. 

The English officer in question had in fact no thought of teasing him—they would soon be coming round the shoulder of the hill, with Fort William on the other side, and Captain Windham would hardly find it consistent with his parole to bother an enemy officer in the course of his duty. He reined in his horse, to drop back behind Ardroy. 

The Irish Brigade halted, Captain Quinn ordering them to put on cloaks to hide their red coats and contrasting white cross-belts. Keith did the same without being told. The Highlanders, their tartans blending in with the vegetation, had no need of additional concealment. 

Night had now fallen, and the weather fulfilled the promise of the earlier dark clouds: as they rounded the sheltering hill, the northerly wind lashed them with rain. Even without the poor visibility, Keith thought they would have had no trouble from the fort, whose guns were too far away to reach them, and any sallies from the fort would have to cross the rivers first—besides which, it was poorly manned, since the intended Hanoverian reinforcements had failed to reach it. No, the danger was likely to come from the naval side: if they were discovered by the bomb ketch in the harbour, he would not relish being the target of its mortars. 

Their progress was slow, but some of the Camerons, no doubt included in the party for this very purpose, seemed to know every step of the way even in the dark. And finally, without discovery, they were past the danger, and their mission turned into a dreary wet slog in the darkness, until Ardroy called a halt. 

There was room for about half the force to get out of the rain and cram into the small Highland village where they had halted. Keith trusted that Ardroy had explained his status, so that he would not be dirked in the night by one of the inhabitants of the low, smoky, and doubtless lousy dwelling where he was housed. They lay like herrings in a barrel, Keith with one side against the earthen wall, and Ewen on his other, so close that the hilt of his sword poked Keith in the side. 

Having apologised to Keith for the poor quarters, Ewen wrapped himself in his plaid and seemed to fall immediately asleep, while Keith lay awake for some little while. Their arms and some part of their legs were touching; Keith could feel the warmth of him through his cloak, and was inordinately aware of the fact. He found the memory of that evening's attempted escape replaying in his mind—inexperienced as a military man his young Achilles might be, but what a swordsman he was! Keith could not help but admire it. 

The long day finally caught up with him, and he slept. 

Next morning they had no need to hurry, since they would wait for the main column to come up. The inhabitants of the village, Keith could now see, were mostly old men, women and children, the main part of the men being of course in the army, though some of their party (perhaps the ones who had guided the carts last night) seemed indeed to belong here. 

Some time before noon, the main column came marching down a glen descending from the mountainside. The Pretender's son was in the lead, on foot and clad in no very princely garments—but then Keith, being predisposed to disapprove of him whatever his appearance, would probably have dismissed him as a fop if he had been dressed according to his supposed station. 

The Camerons merged seamlessly into their clansmens' ranks, leaving the Irish Brigade to handle the difficult work of fording of the Lochy with the baggage train. Captain Windham observed this with some amusement—here was the value of trained troops! 

It was raining, though not heavily, and once they left the muddy environs of the Lochy and gained the packed gravel of Wade's road, the going was easy. Ruefully, Windham reflected that the hard work of the British army in constructing these roads was now materially aiding the enemy—a road, once built, was a weapon that could cut both ways. 

Having passed High Bridge, they addressed the interminable march along Loch Lochy, a prospect that reminded Keith of the flight of his recruits—a parcel of cowards all of them!—and casting about for something to distract him from that unpleasant subject, he glanced at Ardroy. 

That young man, riding beside him and having relinquished his temporary command, now seemed more easy in his mind, and Keith felt that perhaps he could allow himself some diversion. 

'Mr Cameron,' he began, 'I happened to overhear one of your Highlanders complaining that they would not do women's work, referring to the baggage train.' 

Ardroy reddened slightly, but said nothing. 

'It is lucky for you that you have the French troops—otherwise you might have done better to bring your women out, if they will work harder than your men!' 

At that, Keith got the reaction he had been fishing for: Ardroy brought his chin up, saying, 'If you wish to judge the worth of our clansmen, Captain Windham, I pray you would wait until you have seen them in battle!' 

Keith enjoyed seeing that flash in his eye. 'Indeed, I would be interested in seeing that.'

'And you may soon get the chance, for—' But here Ardroy fell abruptly silent, realising that he should not give information to an enemy. 'I beg your pardon.' 

Well, well. Keith had noticed a messenger joining them at High Bridge, and wondered if that was the source of Ardroy's information. 'Don't trouble yourself, Mr Cameron. I understand—I am on parole, but not for the length of the campaign.' 

Ardroy looked abashed at having revealed anything at all, and Keith, intensely curious, wondered what the message had been. Perhaps the well-affected clans had been armed and were gathering? Or perhaps the regular forces in the Lowlands were heading this way. Time would tell. 

By the time they reached Laggan that evening, Keith estimated that the day's march for the main column might have been a quite impressive twenty-five miles, and in the rain, too. And the Pretender's son had marched the whole way on foot—Keith grudgingly admitted that the man was no weakling, and had at least a limited talent for leading men, for it was clear that the troops appreciated his efforts. But that, of course, was no proof of his wider military skills, or his worthiness (or otherwise) of gaining the throne. 

They lodged that night in Invergarry castle, decayed and ruinous, but at least spacious. Ardroy secured them quarters in a room that leaked only at one corner, which they shared with a number of other Cameron gentry. 

The next day it appeared that they were not to march, and Windham found himself with time on his hands. 

Ewen Cameron, on the other hand, was a busy man: since he was aide-de-camp to the Prince, he carried messages and was included in various councils of war. At midday, the distant cheering of the men, heard through the open window, led him to crane his head and listen, and the Prince, with a nod, released him to see what the commotion was about. 

Marching down the lakeside towards them was a band perhaps three hundred strong, flying a blue colour with the white St Andrew's cross. As they came closer, Ewen gave a whoop of joy and ran down the stairs, waving at his cousin in the front ranks. 

'Ewen!' cried Alan Stewart, young Invernacree, and then Ewen was embracing his kinsman. They were of an age, and had played together as boys on Ewen's visits to his mother's Stewart kin. 'The Chief refused the call, but Ardsheal brought us out, and I'm so glad—I could not stand to stay at home.' 

'Young Cameron of Ardroy!' called that burly man, in a voice that carried. 'Let's see if your Stewart blood will tell!' 

'If so, it's like to be because of your teaching!' answered Ewen with a grin, for Charles Stewart of Ardsheal was reckoned one of the best swordsmen in the Highlands, and had at times been Ewen's teacher in that art. 

But Ardroy recalled his duty as aide-de-camp, and went to inform the Prince that the Stewarts of Appin had come out for him, along with the MacDonalds of Glencoe, and the Prince duly welcomed them to his service. 

All that day reports streamed in: two hundred MacLeans were on their way from Mull; the Grants of Glenmoriston were of course coming out, though it was too much to hope that the Whig main branch of the Grants would do so. Feeling ran high against Alexander MacDonald of Sleat and Norman MacLeod of MacLeod, who for some misbegotten reason were going back on their pledged word, and it was suspected that Government had some sort of hold on them. But however, everybody knew that it was greatly against the will of their clansmen, and it was hoped that the minor chiefs would take the lead, and some such reports had already been received. The MacKenzies had been the backbone of the Fifteen, but the young Lord Fortrose was now a Whig and would never come out; yet great hopes were put on the other branch of the clan under the Earl of Cromartie, who had now declared for Prince Charles. 

Cheers erupted in the room when a messenger came to say that Lord Lovat, that wily fox, had finally committed, and that the substantial Fraser clan would be joining up. And Anne Farquharson, against the will of her husband, was raising the MacIntoshes. 

And so it went. Ewen felt as if he was smiling all that day, and felt as well the full honour of serving his Prince so closely. 

Before supper, he recalled his duty towards the prisoner whose parole he held, and the Prince now being attended by Ewen's cousin Archie, Ewen took one heaped plate in either hand and tucked a bottle of claret under his arm, and went in search of Captain Windham. 

He found him in the room where they had spent the night, sitting on his blanket on the floor with his back against the wall, legs outstretched before him and with an open pocket-book in his lap and a pen in his hand. Ewen caught a glimpse of his expression: absorbed in thought, not smiling, but with some private amusement giving a little twist to his mouth. Then he looked up, saw Ewen, and his face went back to non-committal. 

'I have brought you supper, Captain Windham,' announced Ewen, sitting down on the floor on his own blanket, at an angle to Windham, who tucked his legs up to give him space. 

There was a fire burning in the hearth, not indeed for the cold, but to drive out the damp. His prisoner had taken his red coat off as well as his wig, and Ewen thought Windham looked younger without it—he wondered how many years were between them. Despite the shortness of his dark hair, it curled slightly on his forehead. 

'And keep me company while I eat? That is kind of you,' said Windham, with a brief but genuine smile. 'You must have more illustrious choices of company available to you than a paroled enemy officer.' 

'Oh, I have attended the Prince all day,' said Ewen, with a smile in return. 'I'm sure he will get along without me for a while.' 

They both addressed themselves to their food, Ewen finding that he was ravenous. 

Windham also ate with an appetite. 'What excellent beef,' he said, with appreciation. 'Now that's more like it, after all that gruel.' 

'The Glengarrys wish to regale their royal guest, I think.' 

'I must thank you for letting me share in his bounty then, Mr Cameron.' 

Ewen hesitated. 'I...my rank is equal to yours now, Captain Windham,' he said a trifle awkwardly. He had no notion of how Captain Windham would react to this—perhaps with some ironic comment about the power of 'the Pretender' to issue commissions, or with some veiled reference to Ewen's lack of experience. 

But no—Windham only inclined his head, and said, with no trace of irony in his tone, 'I congratulate you, Captain Cameron.' 

'Thank you.' Ewen felt his cheeks heating, surprised to feel so gratified. To hide it, he poured them both some more claret, in the pewter mugs they both carried with them, for there were not glasses enough at the castle for all the guests. 

He never quite knew what to expect from Captain Windham. His attitude and conduct clearly showed him to be an honourable man, but whether he was going to give Ewen the sharp edge of his wit, or make a sudden turn into sincerity, Ewen could seldom tell. This evening he seemed to be in the latter mood. 

'Lieutenant-Colonel O'Sullivan tried to divide us into companies according to some rigid notion,' said Ewen. 'As if the men in another man's tail would fight for me, or mine for him!' 

Captain Windham threw back his head and laughed, evidently much amused. 'Don't come complaining to me—I suspect my sympathies would rather be with him, trying to shape you up into a proper army.' 

Then he asked, 'On that pattern, is Lochiel your colonel, then?' 

Ewen nodded. 'Yes, of the Cameron regiment.' 

'Well, you at least are the size of a regiment—some of the other clans seem over-small for it.' 

'So O'Sullivan said, but they were not pleased.' 

Again, that amused twist to Windham's mouth. Conscientiously, Ewen considered whether he were giving too much information to the enemy, but did not see what use he could possibly make of it. 

They sat silent for a while, sipping their claret. Then Windham spoke, more thoughtful now. 'I see now that your rebellion is not a mere flash in the pan, Captain Cameron.'

'No, indeed,' said Ewen proudly. 

'I admit I thought so, at first, but your...young gentleman...clearly has support from France, and I can see that your clans are rallying.' Windham added hastily, 'Please do not think that I was spying, but I took a short walk to get some air, and I could hardly keep my eyes closed while doing so.' 

''Twould never have crossed my mind to accuse you of it,' Ewen reassured him. 

'Thank you. You remember, perhaps, that I tried to persuade you to give it up, before we left Ardroy. I will hardly try that again.' 

Ardroy might have made some comment, but Windham's voice was pensive, and he could not take offence at his words. 

'War is my trade,' he continued, 'but that does not mean that I am eager to see it come to my homeland. If your force is larger, that only means the more suffering before it is put down.' 

'And are you so sure that it will be put down?' In response to Windham's tone, Ewen's also was thoughtful, and not the challenge it might otherwise have been. 

Windham gave his half-smile, and nodded in acknowledgement at Ewen, as if he had scored a point. 'Let us not go into that, then, though I hope you are aware of how many troops King George has—it is as true regardless of which side wins the war.' 

'I believe, Captain Windham, that my cause is just. As you do of yours. And I trust that my Prince does not wish to cause needless suffering among the people that are, after all, his subjects to care for. War has rules, and it is no part of them to attack unarmed men, or harm women and children.' 

'I agree to the utmost with your latter statement, at least,' said Windham. 'I only hope that both sides will adhere to it, in a civil war. Perhaps, then, Captain Cameron, we could raise a glass to treating one's enemy with respect, since we cannot agree on which King to drink to.' 

'I'll gladly drink to that,' replied Ewen. They clinked their mugs gently together, and drank. 

He added, 'We march tomorrow morning, so be ready.' 

That night before falling asleep Ewen lay in his blankets, thinking over the day. His thoughtful conversation with Captain Windham had stayed with him, and he felt that he perhaps understood him somewhat better now. 

Ewen did not fully believe in it, but still he could not quite dismiss Old Angus' prophecy, that he would meet this man whom the heron had brought to him four more times; that he would do him a great service, and cause him a bitter grief. 

Well, that was in the future, if it were to come to pass at all, and to a young man who had experienced a day which seemed to him a cup brimful of joy, an old man's prophecies did not seem much to trouble himself about.

* * *

They rose early the next day, and Windham kept out of the way of the bustle while the army formed up. The long narrow column of the MacDonald regiment (if indeed O'Sullivan had succeeded in persuading the various branches of that clan to form one regiment) snaked out of camp, and then Keith fell in beside Ardroy as the Camerons began to march. 

It was a sunny day, promising to be hot, even, and the sun shone very prettily on the colours that streamed out in the breeze. Keith surmised that they were headed to some engagement, as earlier in the morning the men had fired off the loads in their muskets, cleaned them, and loaded them with fresh rounds. Yesterday they had sharpened their swords. The Irish Brigade did not seem to be coming with them, and Keith wondered why they were dividing their forces. But he could hardly ask.

They headed north along Wade's road, but before they arrived at Fort Augustus, they turned to the right and went up a glen, presumably a short-cut to avoid the fort and rejoin the road further up. The climb was hot work, and the pace was high, but when they had gained a temporary plateau, a halt was called to allow the men to catch their breath and eat. 

Keith dismounted and followed Ardroy to a small burn that ran down the hillside, where he stooped down to drink the cold and welcome water. But Ardroy did rather more. 

'Ach, it's hot!' he exclaimed. He had already taken off his plaid early in the day and was left in only shirt and kilt, but now he stripped off the shirt too, and kneeling down, he dipped his head into the burn and splashed the water over his bare and muscled back. Keith stared at him. 

Ewen's knees were planted some distance apart on the mossy bank, and the hem of his kilt, usually reaching his knees, was riding up as he leaned forward, revealing to Keith the lower half of his strong thighs. Keith was unable to stop his imagination from venturing still further, and the stab of sheer physical desire that he felt left him breathless. 

Ardroy sat back on his heels, wringing out his hair, which instead of auburn was now dark brown and dripping. He pulled his shirt back over his head and tucked it into his kilt, but since his body was still wet, the shirt rather clung to him. 

'Now that's better!' he said cheerfully to Keith. 'Aren't you hot in that uniform?' 

Hot, indeed. Keith found himself tongue-tied, hoping that his flush would be attributed to their recent exercise rather than the revelation that the admiration which, he imagined, anyone would feel at the young laird's appearance was, in his own case, rather more carnal in nature than he had previously let himself realise. 

Ewen's smile widened. 'Oh, you English. Don't tell me you are really so strait-laced that you cannot take your clothes off enough to cool down in a stream.' 

Keith could see his nipples through the thin wet fabric of his shirt. He managed some rejoinder, though he hardly knew what, and turned his back on the vision before him to retreat, or indeed flee, to his horse. 

Ewen's good-natured laughter followed him—perhaps he was enjoying the chance to return some of those darts which Keith had formerly aimed at him. Keith dearly hoped the man never realised the true cause of his discomposure. 

Keith was very well aware of his predilection for men, though he kept it strictly apart from his army life or his social life in general—anything else would be an invitation to ruin his career or indeed his life. Besides, he liked women as well, which was of course much easier and safer, though after Lydia's betrayal he had held himself rather aloof from further such affairs. His contacts with men, when he had the opportunity to scratch that itch, were quick and anonymous assignations in St James's Park or other areas of London where like-minded men by subtle signals showed their inclinations. 

But to react this way to a fellow officer, and an enemy who held his parole, to boot—no, it would never do, and he must suppress it! Keith could find no excuse for it but that it had been too long since he bedded anyone whatsoever. In that state, and confronted with such—such physical splendour—he could hardly help reacting to it, in a purely physical manner. For his attraction to Ardroy was certainly nothing more. 

So Keith told himself. He chose not to think about the previous evening, when after a somewhat lonely day his captor had unexpectedly and thoughtfully brought him food and drink, and after sharing that conversation and that bottle of wine with him Keith had regretted rather wistfully that they should have to be on opposing sides. 

Ardroy came walking back from the stream, his kilt swinging about his legs and his shirt still plastered to his chest, and Keith quickly looked the other way. 

The army got underway again, and Keith, while he rode, contemplated the journal he had kept since leaving Ardroy, and what he had written in it on the subject of Ewen Cameron. 'His young Achilles,' indeed. Keith was mortified; perhaps he ought to burn that pocket-book which was so incriminating, if only in his own mind. And on the subject of admiring his swordplay and wishing he could see more of it, well, no need to spell that out. 

He kept somewhat away from Ardroy as they climbed further up, towards the Corryarrick pass, but the newly made officer hardly noticed, since he was busy with his duties. Windham guessed that they were perhaps marching east to meet with General Cope and his forces, but of course he had no notion of where those forces were—he had to suppose the Jacobites had received some intelligence. 

As they crested the last rise to the pass, Keith drew in his breath, for there at some distance, drawn up in order of battle, was what must be Cope's army. It had reached the pass before them, and Cope had chosen a ground as good as any that might be found there. An army could hardly be expected to clamber up and manoeuvre on the steeper slopes that surrounded the pass, but there was a gentler ridge to one side, which the army had occupied. Captain Windham's spirits rose at the sight of the redcoats in their regimented lines. 

The Jacobites were apparently not taken by surprise—of course, they must have kept scouts out. They kept marching until their whole force had reached the more level ground up on the pass, and then the officers called a halt, and the lines turned to face the opposing army. Keith climbed up the hillside behind them so as to keep out of the way, and observe the battle. Ardroy was speaking firmly to his men (or his tail, as he so quaintly called it) in Gaelic, as were other officers; as far as Keith could understand they were giving them some last-minute instructions as to the use of their muskets. 

The pipers began their painful clamour, to which the Highlanders' reaction was very different from Keith's: the clansmen began to throw off their plaids, which were for the most part not two separate garments like Ardroy's, so that many of them were left in only their shirts, and as Keith watched in amazement they knotted the shirts between their legs, apparently intending thus half-naked to go into battle! Keith saw the Pretender's son, like himself, trying to stifle laughter, and for the first time felt something in common with the man. 

All this happened quite quickly—conceivably Cope might have attacked them while they were not fully formed up, but Windham assumed they did not wish to abandon their higher ground or leave their artillery behind. As far as he could judge, Cope had about fifteen hundred men, roughly equal to that of the Highlanders, and neither side had any cavalry. Keith shaded his eyes against the sun, squinting, in order to see Cope's artillery—there seemed to be some, but he could not make out the details. The Highlanders had none. 

And then they were formed up, in three ranks in a line roughly the length of Cope's on the other side of the valley, with the Camerons on the left and Ardroy's tall figure unmistakable among them, the sun gleaming on his reddish hair. The Pretender's son, venturing out in front of them, theatrically drew his sword, saying something about throwing away his scabbard, and some further phrases about victory, freedom and happiness. Words were cheap, after all. 

His theatrics did not extend to leading their advance, though, for he retreated to the hillside a little way below Windham, with a party including O'Sullivan and others. 

With that, the Highlanders charged, and the din of the pipes was abruptly silenced, as the pipers picked up their weapons instead. Their chiefs and gentry seemed all to be in the front line, and led the advance at what was almost a run. Keith saw with a sudden indrawn breath that Ardroy's section of the Camerons were running straight at the artillery—no, bloody _hell,_ he had to stop thinking about that man! 

Thus Captain Windham wrenched his thoughts from Ewen Cameron and set himself to dispassionate observation, ignoring the din of the firing muskets and guns, and the sharp smell of the gunpowder drifting towards him on the breeze. And indeed his description of the battle, written down soon afterwards, was to become one of the definitive accounts of it, both for the benefit of the Government, and for the historians of posterity. 

Incredibly, the Highlanders were running uphill, though perhaps the slope did not seem steep to them. Windham noted grimly that Cope's regiments must not be particularly disciplined, as they were many of them firing at will, and much too early—by gad, if his own company had acted thus, he would have given them the sharp edge of his tongue! And the artillery, firing once and having some effect on the oncoming Highlanders, did not fire again—were they short of gunners? 

The Jacobites, on their part, did not fire early—Keith surmised that this was the content of their officers' harangues while they were forming up—but fired their volley only at close range, where they certainly did execution. And then, incredibly, they all of them threw away their muskets, drawing their swords and taking their targes from their shoulders, and continuing their charge with cold steel. Some of them had what Keith surmised were Lochaber axes instead—some sort of long and broad-bladed polearm that looked positively medieval. 

It was fighting of a kind that Captain Windham had never seen: the battles he had known on the Continent were a process of manoeuvre and attrition that might take several hours, with the men drilled to fire in volleys, reload quickly, and fire again on command, but often into the smoke, perhaps not even seeing their enemies, but trusting their officers to direct them.

This one was over within fifteen minutes. 

The targes seemed to provide some protection against the bayonets, and once a wedge of the Highlanders, led by one of the officers, had broken into the line of the redcoats, their swords did bloody work. The regimented lines fell apart remarkably quickly. Keith could not be sure from such a distance, but the redcoats did not appear to have any swords, and a bayonet was hardly meant to be used to parry with in a swordfight. 

In a short time, the men were running, and Keith winced as he saw them cut down from behind. But there was nowhere much for them to run, for they were caught against the side of the pass behind them. Mercifully, the Jacobite officers seemed to be calling their men to order. 

Once the bloody work of those first fifteen minutes was done, a relative silence fell, and the aftermath of the battle took the rest of the day: sorting the living from the dead, caring for the wounded, confiscating the weapons and supplies, handling the prisoners. 

Windham watched as the surrender of Cope's army was accepted, his head full of speculation. These could not have been seasoned troops! To fire so poorly, and not stand their ground—and the guns as well had given a very poor performance. And yet, they were apparently all that Scotland could muster, at least at such short notice. But why had they not waited for reinforcements? For Keith did not know then that Cope's orders to attack immediately had left him very little room to use his own discretion. 

How, then, might such tactics best be countered in the future? If there were some obstacle between the armies, such that the Highlanders could be exposed to sustained musket and artillery fire without being able to close with their swords, that might serve...or if that was not possible, perhaps the best defence might be to treat it as a cavalry charge, forming up into a hollow square...

Keith's musings were interrupted as Ardroy came striding up, tall and sweaty and seeming to glow with the exhilaration of the fight, and Keith on seeing him could quite imagine what half-serious, half-mocking phrases he might have written in his journal, had he not had that mortifying revelation earlier in the day: the conquering Achilles, the victorious hero. Keith flushed. 

'How much of that blood is yours?' he blurted out, before he could stop himself. There was certainly a lot of it. 

Ardroy looked down in surprise. 'None, I think? At least that I have noticed. But I thank you for the concern.' 

He continued, 'Captain Windham, I came to ask whether you would be willing to help care for the wounded. My cousin Archie needs an assistant.' 

'Certainly,' Keith said. 'I have no especial skills, but then I expect such are in short supply.' He stripped off his uniform coat and waistcoat and left them on the hillside, rolling up his sleeves. Ardroy led him across to the battlefield, pointed him towards Doctor Archibald Cameron, and strode off in pursuit of his further duties. 

Keith on reaching the ground where the fighting had been most intense was rather shocked. Dead and wounded soldiers he was used to, but not chopped-off limbs and heads! He stopped involuntarily before one corpse, clearly killed by the bloody crack in his skull, but both his hands were severed at the wrists, and Keith could not help reconstructing the moment of death: his raised hands above his head, so inadequate for warding off the blow that killed him. Well, at least he had not suffered long. 

Dr Cameron, when he reached him, was kneeling on the ground bandaging a wound, with blood to his elbows. He quickly set Captain Windham to work, stripping clothes off the dead to use as bandages for the living, handing Dr Cameron instruments and supplies as needed, and generally assisting his work. 

Upon seeing Keith's face as he was stemming the flow of blood from a severed arm, Dr Cameron commented, 'You find these wounds barbarous, perhaps, Captain Windham?' 

'I am certainly not used to them,' equivocated Keith. 

'As a physician,' said Dr Cameron calmly, 'I would far rather treat a wound inflicted by a broadsword than by a musket ball or bayonet. They may be bloody, but they are generally clean to begin with, and if they are not, then the wound is exposed and easy to clean. Hand me that bandage, if you please?'

Keith did so, and after tying it, Dr Cameron went on to his next patient, directing Keith to apply pressure to one of the patient's wounds while he cleaned and bandaged the other. 

'A wound from a musket ball, or a bayonet,' he continued, 'has a small entrance, but extends deep into the body, so that often small pieces of clothing or dirt are carried deep into the wound and are difficult to clean out. Corruption often sets in, which can be fatal even for a small wound.' 

Keith owned that he had often seen it in the field. 

Presently they were joined by two surgeons from Cope's army, and several more volunteers, one of whom Keith guessed to be a soldier's wife, who seemed to know what she was doing, and the grim endless work went on. His hands were sticky with blood that had time to half dry, only in time to receive a fresh coat of it, and the cloying smell of it filled his nose. 

Keith shivered, aware suddenly that he was cold. The sun had descended below the mountains in the west, though the sky was still light, and the sudden shade was a great contrast to the baking sunshine of the day. But he persevered, as did Dr Cameron and the others, treating Highlander and redcoat alike. 

'Captain Windham,' said Ardroy's voice behind him, and Keith found it so welcome that his own reply, in suppressing that emotion, was unnecessarily short. 

'Yes, Captain Cameron?' Keith got to his feet, feeling light-headed. His mouth was dry. 

'You have been working all day, and 'tis late. Archie, may I take your assistant? And you too, for that matter—I have secured supper and something to drink for you.' 

'You are very right, my dear Ewen,' said Dr Cameron, wiping his bloody hands on the grass and standing. 'A doctor must eat and drink too, or he will soon be no good to anyone.' 

Keith stopped to wash his hands in a small burn nearby, and when he had scrubbed them clean, he drank mouthful after mouthful of the cold water. He had not realised how thirsty he was. 

'Let me get my clothes before supper,' he told Ardroy, but upon fetching his coat and waistcoat, he hesitated. His shirtsleeves were covered in half-dried blood, with quite a lot of it on the rest of the shirt, too. The knees of his breeches and stockings were dark with it, as well. 

'Do you have another shirt?' asked Ardroy. He himself seemed to have washed his off earlier in the day, so that it was already dry. 

Keith did not. 'I can rinse it off,' he muttered. 

Ardroy frowned. 'But then it would be wet, and it is evening. You can borrow my spare shirt, if you want—I have used it once, so it is not freshly laundered, but it would be much better than that.' He dug it from his saddlebag and held it out. 

Keith hesitated. But the thought of putting his clothes on with all that blood against his skin did not appeal to him, and finally he took the shirt that Ardroy was still holding out. 

'Thank you.' He pulled his own shirt off—Ardroy politely looked away, perhaps thinking that he had to humour his 'strait-laced' English prisoner—and donned Ardroy's, quickly putting on the rest of his clothes. He felt better once he was in uniform again, and not only because it was warmer. 

Supper was oatmeal once again, with a side of some sort of oatcake, and a little cheese, but Keith did not care—the oatmeal was warm and would fill his stomach, and he was ravenous. 

The slow dusk of the Highland summer evening was now softening the bare and desolate landscape of the pass, the sky above them a deepening blue, with the first pinpricks of stars beginning to come out. The breeze was, blessedly, enough to keep off the midges, though it was rather cold. Keith had been absorbed in assisting Dr Cameron all day, and thought he ought to try to estimate the number of wounded and dead, for his eventual report, but it was perhaps too dark for that now. Time enough for it tomorrow. Though he resolved to wash his shirt before turning in—he did not want to be beholden to Ardroy for longer than necessary. 

The two Camerons were conversing in low voices, but when Keith finished his meal, putting down his plate and spoon, they politely turned to him. 

'No celebration tonight?' Keith asked them. For he thought the camp was remarkably quiet—soldiers were commonly rowdy after a battle, especially, of course, if it was a victory. 

'The Prince has forbidden it,' explained Ardroy. 'He does not want his followers to gloat over the defeat of those who are, after all, his subjects, however misguided.' 

Windham let his raised eyebrow show what he thought of that last bit of presumptuousness. 'How generous of him,' he said dryly. But his innate sense of fairness made him add grudgingly, 'I do commend the equal treatment of the wounded.' 

He wondered what would be done with the captured officers and men, but could not well ask, since it touched on his enemies' military plans. 

'On that subject,' said Dr Cameron, 'I shall take a last round and see whether any further medical arrangements are needed tonight.' 

Keith made to rise, but Dr Cameron held up a hand. 'No need, Captain Windham—you have assisted me enough today. Thank you, and I bid you good night.' 

'I have the morning watch,' said Ardroy, 'so I should sleep now. Will you join me, Captain Windham?' 

Keith nodded, and they stood. Away from the cooking fires, now dying down to embers, the Highland army had settled down on the hillside in their plaids, almost invisible in the dusk. Except, of course, for those who were awake and guarding Cope's defeated troops, who had been allowed to set up their tents. 

Keith followed Ardroy to the Cameron camp. He settled down and quickly transformed into one of those tartan-wrapped bundles, and Keith, after first washing out his shirt in a nearby burn and hanging it on a bush, lay down a few yards away from him and wrapped himself in cloak and blanket. 

He was very tired, and disjointed thoughts and images went through his mind: predictably, the severed limbs and blood of his long afternoon's work—no, he must not dwell on that. The humiliation of Cope's troops—well, it was but one battle, and the war only beginning. Seasoned troops must be brought home from Flanders...Keith shivered, in the way that one is sometimes cold after having been in the hot sun all day, and he burrowed further down into his clothes, drawing the blanket over his head. 

His face now among the ruffles of the shirt, he breathed in and made a small noise of dismay when he realised that _the shirt smelled like Ardroy_. And when had he made note of how the man smelled? He breathed it in again, and could not stop thinking of how the shirt tucked round his groin, and how it must have previously... _no_. No, he had to stop this. 

Beginning tomorrow, he would keep more of a distance between them, for the sake of his own sanity. He would be correct in his manner: no more intimate conversations over supper and wine, such as they had had at Invergarry Castle—this was not a social occasion, and they were enemies, damn it, not friends—and he must stop attempting to elicit reactions from him by means of jests, for he now well realised whence that impulse came. When his parole ran out, he must refuse to renew it, and thereafter be Ardroy's prisoner on ordinary terms, and contrive somehow to escape. 

And then he would be back where he belonged and free of this foolish attraction. Having already determined the futility of desiring a place in anyone's affections, be it a man or a woman's, how much more futile would it not be in the case of an enemy officer? 

This resolution was Keith's last rational train of thought before fatigue dragged him under, and he slept. 

As for Ewen Cameron, he too slept deeply, but unlike Keith, he was awakened in the very early morning by a hand shaking his shoulder. 

'Yes?' said Ewen, his voice rough with sleep. 

'The command of the watch is yours, Ardroy,' said MacDonald of Kinlochmoidart, in a low voice. 'All has been calm.' 

'Thank you,' replied Ardroy, sitting up and yawning. He woke those of his men who would be joining him, and in the grey half-light before dawn, they went to the guardposts and replaced the grateful MacDonalds who would now be getting some rest. 

Having put Neil in command of the western post, where he might sound the alarm with his pipes if any attempt was made by the prisoners to break out, he himself sat down cross-legged on a hummock of grass by the eastern one, which was higher and had a good view of the camp. 

His men were silent, and Ewen wrapped his plaid about him and found himself almost grateful for this quiet space of time in which he might contemplate the previous day, which seemed to him so full of both events and emotions that he could not see it as a coherent whole, only tug on threads of it, one at a time. 

They had won, and he had acquitted himself well. That was perhaps his uppermost thought, and he still felt a warm glow in his chest when he recalled Donald's smile and his brief, but emphatic, 'Well done, Ewen.' 

But however well he had done, it was still the first time he had taken someone's life. They had been soldiers—they had signed up for that risk, and they had been trying to kill him, in turn, but...one might spar a thousand times, and not be ready for the feeling of one's sword shearing through flesh and bone, the bright heartblood dripping from it. 

He did not know how many he had killed—three at least who died instantly, that he remembered, and probably at least as many who could not have survived his strokes for long. They had been quite unprepared for that kind of fighting, with no sort of chance, once their lines had broken up. 

Daybreak was almost upon them. Ewen was still in shadow, but the first rays of sunlight were shining through the opening at the pass, and he lifted up his eyes unto his own familiar hills, now on the other side of Glen More, folded his hands, and prayed for the souls of the men he had killed. 

And his own men? Two had been killed during the charge, one of them an old man and another but a lad of eighteen. He had known them both, and he prayed for their souls, as well. Several others had sustained wounds from musket-shots, though Archie had told him they were not serious. But Ewen had, he knew, done his duty by them, in leading them in the charge and taking on the risk of breaking the enemy's line. And they had done theirs, in following him. 

The tents were still quiet, but other parts of the camp were stirring. A figure carrying a large pot in one hand was on her way from the cooking fires, and when she reached them, she set the pot down, took out the plates and spoons that she had carried in a fold of her _earrasaid_ , and ladled up the steaming oatmeal. 

She gave one first to Ewen. _'Seo dhuibh, a Mhic 'ic Ailein,'_ she said. 

_'Tapadh leibh, a Mhoraig,'_ replied Ewen solemnly. 

Having served the other men, Morag then stopped to exchange a few quiet words with her husband, who was one of Ewen's tenants. 

Ewen ate his breakfast with an appetite, wondering with a twitch of his lips whether Captain Windham were even now making some sarcastic remark over his oatmeal—or perhaps he only did that to Ewen. 

He remembered that conversation—was it only two days ago?—when Windham had provoked him into saying that he ought to wait until he saw the clansmen in battle before he judged them. Now he had. Ewen was quite proud of showing the English officer that he, too, could fight and lead men, though he had not the many years' experience that Windham had. 

As well, he recalled with satisfaction Windham's acknowledgement that the Jacobites were treating the defeated army well—though he himself had also laboured many hours with the wounded in the hot sun. 

A messenger came to say that the Prince wanted his aide-de-camp, and Ardroy dismissed the guard. The camp was awake now, and the demoralised and weaponless redcoats would hardly try to break out during the day, surrounded as they were by armed men. Indeed, they seemed to be stirring and doing nothing more sinister than cooking breakfast. 

During the morning council, Ardroy stood behind the Prince and listened, ready in case he should want to send some message. The clan chiefs responded to enquiries from O'Sullivan as to the absence of some of their clansmen, that they had quite naturally gone home in order to deposit their booty, and would soon be back. O'Sullivan seemed shocked at this, but was slightly mollified when he learnt that they had been instructed to bring back spades, to bury the dead, which had yesterday been piled to one side: a gruesome task. 

The mood was otherwise excellent: this victory had been just what they needed, and it was expected that it would greatly increase recruitment to their cause, and demoralise the enemy. Indeed, this had already happened—Ewen was delighted to learn that over half of the unwounded soldiers from Cope's defeated army were ready to be sworn to the Prince's service, including not a few non-commissioned officers. As to the commissioned officers, a very few of them were ready to do so as well, but most had given their parole. And a party of scouts ranging into Badenoch had met with MacPherson of Cluny, who indeed was also a captain in the 64th Highlanders, but who seemed very ready to be persuaded to join them. 

It was resolved that they should march into the Lowlands the next day by the northern branch of Wade's road, heading for Perth, and that the Irish Brigade and the Frasers and other clans still gathering would take instead the southern branch, through Crieff. This would make it easier to feed the troops, and recruiting might be done along both roads. The wounded redcoats would be carted down to Fort Augustus, supervised by their own two surgeons. 

Ardroy himself was sent with a despatch to Colonel Gallagher of the Irish Brigade, and having discharged that duty was returning up the road towards the pass. The incomparably fine weather of the previous day was turning to clouds and drizzle, a much more usual state of affairs for the Highlands. He reported to the Prince and gave him the Colonel's reply, and was then given leave to find supper. 

He went in search of his redcoat captain, and upon finding him, Windham handed him back his shirt, neatly folded. 

'I thank you for the loan,' he said, rather stiffly. 

'You are very welcome,' said Ewen. 'I hope you managed to get the bloodstains out of yours.' 

'Thank you, I did.' Then he added politely, 'I suppose I must congratulate you on the new recruits you have gained.' 

'That is generous of you to say, for it cannot have been pleasant news to you. But very few of the officers have come over to us, so we shall be stretched rather thin.' Ewen added impulsively, 'If I didn't know that you would never do it, I could almost wish that you would join us. I would be glad to fight by your side.' 

He almost wished he could take that last bit back, for he had no notion how Captain Windham would take it. His prisoner indeed looked rather startled, but his face quickly closed off, and he said in a rather distant manner, 'I thank you for the sentiment, but you are right that I would not.' 

'Have you had supper?' asked Ewen. 

'No, but I'll join the other paroled officers for theirs. Good evening, Captain Cameron.' 

And so they parted, Ewen stowing the spare shirt in his saddlebag. But he could not help puzzling over Captain Windham's manner, which seemed to him rather changed. Perhaps it might be the humiliation of the redcoats' defeat—it could not have been easy for him to swallow—but that had been yesterday, and he had not acted so then. 

Well, no doubt it was not strange that he should prefer the company of his fellow officers to Ewen's. So Ewen shook off his questions, seeking out Lachlan for supper and a report on the doings in camp. Then, after visiting his wounded tenants and assuring himself that they were doing well—they would, of course, be returning to Ardroy now—and seeing to the welfare of his other men, he sought an early bed, since he had been up before dawn.

* * *

The next day saw them march to Dalwhinnie, a distance of perhaps twelve miles that descended the steep zig-zag of the road from the Corryarrick, leaving behind the sterile and rocky heights and passing into Glen Spean, where fields of barley and oats waved on the narrow but fertile land along the Spey, with little villages dotted among them. The body that marched was composed of two quite disparate parts—the Highlanders and the redcoats, and the latter itself divided into two parts: those who had joined the Jacobites and were now temporarily commanded by some officers who had been spared from the Irish Brigade, and the prisoners who would be marched into the Lowlands, there to be accommodated in some fashion, for if they were let loose near Glen More they would surely flock to the garrisons of the forts, though their weapons were of course now in Jacobite hands. 

The captured officers were a distinctive group among the prisoners, and there were over a hundred of them. Keith had learnt that they had all of them given their parole for the length of the campaign, or until they were exchanged, which was just what he himself had refused to do, but he was not surprised: the scale of the defeat was such that they had hardly felt themselves able to set conditions, and in the Continental wars, it was a commonplace, since captured and paroled officers were regularly exchanged through cartels. 

Keith thus felt himself set somewhat apart, though the circumstances of his own defeat and capture were no less humiliating—and when the other officers learnt that their defeat had been brought about by only half the Pretender's army, their mood hardly improved. It was widely expected that General Cope would be court-martialled, though indeed he had only followed orders to close with the rebels as soon as possible. Captain Windham privately thought the fault lay elsewhere: the Marquess of Tweeddale, Secretary of State for Scotland, was far away in London, and dictating strategy by means of binding orders from such a distance was bound to fail. But even if Cope should be acquitted, he must be a broken man: a general whose whole army was killed or captured would hardly be given command again. 

But the officers agreed that they had on the whole been treated well, and it seemed that plans were being made to accommodate them in Perth in reasonable comfort. To be sure, their horses had been confiscated and they must march on foot, but then horses were a scarce commodity in the Highland army. Windham, on the other hand, was still mounted on one of Ardroy's horses, and was sensible of just how much his captor had treated him like a guest and not like a defeated enemy. 

He reported to Ardroy regularly, but he now followed his resolution to keep more of a distance between them, though always behaving correctly and politely. He thought that Ardroy was perhaps a little hurt by it, and Keith, stung by conscience at the impression he must be giving of ingratitude for his hospitality, and by the effort of suppressing that warmth of feeling which was his true inclination towards him, avoided him as much as possible in favour of the company of the other paroled officers. 

At Dalwhinnie, Wade's road divided, one branch leading north to Inverness, and the other south to the Lowlands. The next day, in intermittent rain, they took the southern road over the Drumochter pass and then along the banks of the infant Garry down to Dalnacardoch, a respectable march of seventeen miles. 

The Prince ordered a number of cattle killed for the benefit of the men, and indeed they seemed cheered by it. Ewen, too, felt himself cheered by the hearty meal, and he leaned back in his chair and sighed in satisfaction. Archie, sitting beside him in the small village house where they were both billeted together with some of the other officers, smiled at him. 

'Is army life agreeing with you, then?' he asked. 

'Oh, it is!' replied Ewen. 'I can't wait until we take Edinburgh. To see the Prince where he belongs...' 

Archie laughed. 'Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren't you? We have to march there first. And Ewen, I hope you remember that all our battles won't be as easy as the first one.' 

'I know it's your role to be older and wiser, Archie, but even you can't deny that things are going well.' 

'We are only beginning, but yes, they are going quite well so far, I think,' he agreed. 'Is there no cloud in your sky, then, Ewen?' 

'No...well, perhaps,' allowed Ewen. 'My parole prisoner—' 

'Captain Windham? Is he giving you trouble?' 

'Not as such, no. He has always acted honourably—but his manner is so changed that I fear I have offended him somehow. He avoids me, I think.' 

'He is a military professional, my dear Ewen, and though they are often honourable, they generally do not possess your measure of chivalry. I know you have been at pains to make him feel like a guest, and I honour you for it. But don't fash yourself over him now—he can take care of himself, and after that defeat, it's no wonder if he prefers the company of his fellow officers.' 

This last explanation had occurred to Ewen as well, but somehow it did not completely satisfy him. He sighed. 'Perhaps you're right. And it might not trouble me so much had it not been for the prophecy.' 

'Prophecy?' said Archie, considerably surprised. 

'Yes, I suppose I haven't told you,' Ewen said, recalling that the only ones who knew were the MacMartins. 'Old Angus said that I should soon meet with a man whose destiny would in some unknown way be bound up with mine, and that I should meet him through the agency of a heron. And Captain Windham's horse was startled by a heron so that it broke its leg—that is how I came to capture him.' 

'Was that all he saw?' 

'No. We are to meet five times, the first and the last by water. And I'm to do him a great service, and cause him a bitter grief.' 

'Hmm. Do you believe it, then?' 

Ewen considered it. 'Not really, I suppose…' 

'But you can't quite dismiss it, either?' surmised Archie, looking at the troubled face of his young cousin. 'Well, Angus is your foster-father, and I am Highland enough not entirely to dismiss it myself.' 

'What should I do, then, do you think?' 

'There isn't much you can do, it seems to me, other than what you have already been doing: to treat Captain Windham with honour and hospitality. He can have no rational reason to resent you in any further meetings you may have with him.' 

'No, I suppose not.' Ewen sighed. 'Thank you for listening to me, Archie.' 

'Any time, my dear Ewen.'

'Oh, and I nearly forgot to say: his parole runs out tomorrow at half past six. After what happened at Fassefern, I really must not forget it! I do hope he renews it; 'twould be quite awkward to have him guarded.' 

Archie laughed, for of course he had heard the story, though he had not seen the swordfight. 'You don't want another kilt stolen, I warrant! But no doubt he'll renew it—the other officers are paroled for the whole campaign, after all.' 

But in this, Archibald Cameron was mistaken, for though an insightful man in general, he could have no knowledge of the nature of Keith Windham's sentiments towards his cousin. 

They descended the next day into verdant Atholl, at the confluence of the Garry and the Tilt, whose factor had recently been prevailed upon to feed one army, and who was now being asked to feed that same army on the way back, with the addition of its conquerors, and was endeavouring to do so with as little damage done as possible to the interests of his master. The food, to be sure, would be paid for, but that was the least of the worries of the current Duke of Atholl, for he had been confirmed in his title by King George despite only being the second son, and the first son, who was a Jacobite, had now accompanied the Prince back and meant to have his birthright. 

But Ardroy had little interest at present in these political ramifications, for it was half past five and he needed to find his redcoat captain and convince him to renew his parole. He found him, as he had expected, with some of the other paroled officers, billeted at the house of one of the more prosperous tenants of Atholl. 

'Captain Windham,' he said politely, 'may I speak to you in private?' 

'Certainly, Captain Cameron.' Windham rose, and they left the house. The orchard nearby was empty, and Ewen stopped under a tree where the apples were ripening on the boughs. 

Windham's expression was impassive and did not invite conversation, and Ewen suddenly missed his old teasing manner, despite having been at the time considerably annoyed by some of those barbs. Certainly he missed the Windham who had conversed with him so freely over dinner at Invergarry Castle, and who had sat there without his wig in his own short dark hair, and smiled at him. He could not recall the last time Windham had smiled. 

But he could not think of that now—Ewen was determined not to mishandle this, as he had done a week ago. 'Perhaps you can guess the question I wish to ask you,' he began. 'It is a quarter to six, and your parole will soon run out. Will you consent to renew it?' 

'I will not,' said Windham inflexibly. 'I would prefer henceforth to be your prisoner on ordinary terms.' 

Ewen regarded him, troubled. He did not sound as though he would yield to persuasion. 'I know that I am not, as you once put it, accustomed to the military life,' said Ewen slowly. 'This has been the first time that I hold someone's parole of honour. If I have not...done it correctly, I beg that you will tell me.' 

Windham's expression changed, and he exclaimed, 'Captain Cameron, no—I cannot let you think so! You have been the soul of honour, and your hospitality much more generous than strictly required.' 

Ewen stared at him. There was the Windham he had known before! But why, then—

'I am glad to hear that,' said Ewen quietly. 'But—if it is not that, have I then done something personally to offend you?' 

Windham flushed slightly, looking away. 'No,' he said after a pause that was slightly too long for Ewen entirely to trust his assurance. 'I simply consider it my duty not to prolong my parole.' 

Ewen bowed his head, wondering what he could possibly have done to offend him. 'I shall have to secure you under guard, then, Captain Windham, or possibly under bonds—but I pray you will believe that any inconvenience to you is not my intent, only the consequence of your own decision. And you may of course change your mind whenever you wish.' 

'Of course,' said Windham, a little stiffly. 

He could scarcely put him with the ordinary prisoners, the private soldiers of Cope's army who had not enlisted with them, for they were not so closely guarded. Indeed, a few of them probably slipped away every day, but that was no matter, so long as they did not join the Prince's enemies in force. Ardroy turned Captain Windham over to Neil and Lachlan for the nonce, with strict instructions neither to let him escape, nor to injure him if he made any such attempt, and went to find out where he might be held over the night. 

The young Lady Lude, a Jacobite neighbour who was doing her best to put Blair Castle into a fit state to receive the Prince and her cousin, the new Jacobite Duke, told Ardroy that the castle certainly had a dungeon, if he wished to confine his prisoner there. Indeed, she seemed rather enthusiastic at the prospect of getting a use for it, and Ewen had to tell her that he did not in truth wish his prisoner to suffer, and perhaps she had some less damp and noisome, but still secure, place where he might spend the night? As the reconstruction of the castle from a medieval structure had just begun, and the windows were barred with iron and the walls five feet thick, such a place was readily found: a small room with a sturdy door and lock. 

In that room Keith Windham was presently immured, in quite sufficient comfort, but stung by the pangs of conscience—why had he not managed a quicker denial to Ardroy's question? He was now bound to think this whole thing to be somehow his fault, which it most definitely was not. And Keith could hardly bring it up again. 

With a sigh, he attempted to dismiss Ardroy from his mind, though he was never far from it. Conscientiously, he examined the room, but there was no possibility of escape: besides the bars on it, the window was small and high up, and the sturdy oaken door was locked. Well, his duty then was to rest, so as to be ready for what the morrow might bring. 

It brought Ardroy, with breakfast, who said apologetically, 'I'm afraid I cannot let you be mounted any more, Captain Windham.' 

'I had expected as much,' said Keith dryly. 

He was set instead to march among Ardroy's men: one conspicuous redcoat among the plaids, quite free of bonds except that he had Camerons on all sides of him, and behind him Lachlan, whose presence made the skin between his shoulders itch. Besides his broadsword and musket he undoubtedly had any number of dirks secreted about his person, and would be quite happy to use them on Keith. He was not truly worried—he was sure Ardroy had given Lachlan strict instructions—but he would hardly try escaping while under his eye.

Among the incomprehensible Gaelic speech of the men, Windham could hear the word 'Killiecrankie', and as they were pointing to the left, he also looked that way. He supposed it must be the old battlefield from 1689, where, if he recalled correctly, the Camerons had also fought, but he could only see waving cornfields. They entered the actual pass, where the River Garry ran narrow between steep hillsides, and then flowed into the broader Tummel, and still further down into the Tay. 

After a march of perhaps twelve or thirteen miles, they arrived at the small Lowland village of Dunkeld, which demonstrated its allegiance by the white cloths hung from the windows. Keith looked sourly at the young women with white cockades flocking adoringly round the Pretender's son. 

Ardroy seemed busy that evening, and Keith sat in the drizzle and shared in the clansmens' supper of oatcakes, still guarded by Lachlan, who did not let him out of his sight for a moment. 

It was after sunset when Ardroy finally came to find him, saying with a frown, 'I cannot find such a comfortable prison for you as last night, I'm afraid. In fact, I have not been able to secure billets for us in a house at all—I was kept busy until late, and the village is quite small. We shall have to make do with a tent.' 

'I assure you that I am quite used to sleeping in tents,' said Keith. 

'Yes, but—' Ardroy frowned again, no doubt thinking of how to secure him. Well, Keith would give him no hints. 

Reaching the tent, which was not large, Ardroy said apologetically, 'I am afraid that I shall have to put you in bonds. I know that you must be determined to escape, and 'tis my duty to ensure that you shall not.' 

'I'll not prevent you,' said Keith briefly. Lachlan, the faithful wolf, stood still behind him, no doubt ready to hold him down if necessary. 

As he had promised, Keith submitted to it, lying on his belly on his blanket and feeling Ardroy carefully binding his ankles together with rope. 

'Tell me if it is too tight—I do not want you to be uncomfortable.' 

'It is not,' said Keith. 

Next, Ardroy proceeded to tying his wrists together behind his back, but after laying the rope one turn about them, he stopped and exclaimed unhappily, 'Captain Windham, I want you to know that I am taking no pleasure in doing this to someone who has sat at my table and broken bread with me. Faith, I wish I didn't have to!' 

His hands were warm on Keith's wrists, and Keith was very aware of the fact. He cleared his throat and said, his voice a little rough, 'You have given me every opportunity of giving my parole, so you need feel no compunction.' 

'Very well—since you still refuse it.' Ewen sighed, still troubled, but he slowly proceeded, leaving Keith to ponder the absurdity of having to reassure the captor who was even now tying him up. 

'I think this should not be too tight.' Ardroy inserted a finger under the rope to test it. 'But you have only to tell me if it is.' 

Keith could move his hands a little, but not slip the rope off. Lachlan spoke then, and Ardroy replied, sounding as if they were disagreeing over something. Keith turned his head and saw Lachlan sitting down on the ground outside the open flap of the tent, looking stubborn. 

'He suggests that you will perhaps slip your bonds and dirk me in the night,' explained Ardroy, 'and I have told him that even if you do manage to slip loose, you'll certainly not dirk me. But however, he shall have his way.' 

'He thinks I would stab a sleeping man?' muttered Keith. 'Would he do that?' 

'I would not,' the man in question replied scornfully, speaking for himself. 'But neither would I leave my _ceann-cinnidh_ to sleep alone with a man who gives his word and then takes it back again.' 

Keith flushed, and made an involuntary movement, brought up short by his bonds. He had certainly not done anything dishonourable! 

'Peace, Lachlan,' said Ewen's deep voice, echoing Keith's thought. 'He has done nothing dishonourable. Now, we shall sleep, and Lachlan, you need not watch over me. But if you insist on it, I pray you will at least let Neil take over the watch at midnight.' 

And as Keith could not do it himself, Ardroy took the half of the blanket that Keith was not lying on and folded it over him, then took Keith's cloak and did the same, tucking it solicitously round him. 

Keith, face down where his expression could not be seen, endured it. He had certainly not thought that by withdrawing his parole, he would be thrown more into Ardroy's company! Perhaps he would have done better to renew it, for then he could have continued to associate with the other paroled officers. However, Keith was too proud a man to change his mind now. 

'Are you comfortable? Please tell me if you need anything,' said Ardroy. 

Keith wondered irreverently what he would do if he asked him to scratch the itching mosquito bite on his neck. 'Thank you, I am warm enough.' 

Ardroy settled down close beside him, wrapping himself in his plaid. He seemed to be blessed with the power of falling instantly to sleep, for within five minutes his breathing was coming slow and even. Keith did not feel so blessed. To be sure he was a soldier and had long ago learnt to take rest where he could find it, but his unfamiliar and restrained position together with the emotions simmering in his mind made it difficult for him to find tonight. The humiliation of being tied up with the hostile Lachlan looking on, the slight arousal that Ardroy's closeness could nevertheless not help but awaken in him, and his annoyance at that very reaction: they all combined to keep him awake. 

Finally, his weariness after marching all day on foot took over, and he began to fall into a doze. In that state of mind between wakefulness and full sleep, where one's thoughts wander freely without the constraint of rationality, it was neither arousal nor annoyance which was his main feeling towards the enemy who was lying so close at his side, but rather a sense of comfort, as if, on some bedrock level of common humanity, the fact that they were enemies and that Keith lay in bonds did not matter. 

Windham did not recall these thoughts in the morning, and if he had, he would have rather scornfully reminded his weak-minded self that it manifestly did matter that they were enemies, and that he was a prisoner. 

As Ardroy untied his wrists and ankles the next morning and he stood, Keith felt all the discomfort of having had his arms fixed in position for so long, but in reply to Ardroy's query as to his night's sleep, his pride would let him say nothing of it. 

Ewen set Captain Windham to marching among the Camerons again that day, over the flat and fertile plain towards Perth. His scarlet coat caught the eye, and troubled Ewen's mind. 

But as they marched into Perth, the first larger town along their way, practical concerns overtook his mind. Perth was a town that held both Whig and Jacobite factions, and though it offered them no resistance—indeed, such would have been impossible, since there were no town walls and no garrison—their occupation nevertheless required more attention to political matters. 

But that was not Ardroy's responsibility: his was the task of settling his men outside the town on the banks of the Tay, and ensuring that on no account would they trouble the townspeople or the nearby farmers, or plunder, or do any poaching in the nearby woods, that belonged to their ally the Duke of Perth. He spoke to them quite strictly, and put it to them that if they did not behave, it would reflect on Ewen himself, on Lochiel, and on the Prince and his cause. In return, he would do his best to ensure that they were well fed, and would get meat with their oatcakes. And they would march on in a few days, and could look forward to seeing fighting again when they took Edinburgh. 

After that lecture, he attended the Prince and Lochiel, and aided them however he might: first he spoke with the surrounding farmers, to see where the army camps might be located in order to give the least trouble to them, and then went with messages to other clan chiefs and officers. 

At supper, Lochiel took him aside. 'The paroled officers will be left behind here in Perth. They have given their word of honour not to leave the town and will be given an allowance. But I have been thinking of your prisoner—he has still not agreed to give his parole again?' 

'No, I am afraid not,' admitted Ewen. 

'That is regrettable. We will stay in Perth for a few days, and with your duties it is impractical for you always to have the responsibility for him.' 

'I _am_ responsible for him,' protested Ewen. 'But I own I do not enjoy having to keep him in bonds when he has eaten at my table.' 

'Of course, I quite see that, and it is to your credit that you feel so, my dear Ewen. But I have found a loyal family who have agreed to house him while we are here, at least. They have a spare room on a second storey, and you can set a guard upon the door.' 

'Thank you, Donald.' 

Captain Windham accepted his new quarters without much comment. The room was small and high up under the eaves of the house, with a window, but the sheer walls and the drop to the street did not admit of escape. The door had only a flimsy lock, but Ewen set two armed men to guarding it. 

'I am afraid you'll find it dull, Captain,' said Ewen apologetically, 'but at least you will not be in bonds, and you will have a little privacy.' 

'I am a prisoner, Captain Cameron,' he said dryly, 'and cannot expect to have much choice in accommodations.' 

'I'll ask the family if they have any books to lend you,' added Ewen. 

'Thank you,' said Captain Windham. 

He was back to his unyielding correctness, and Ewen stood for a few moments, looking at his set mouth and that wall of buttoned-up uniform, and wondering whether there were anywhere a chink in it, any way to speak with the man that he knew existed underneath. But Captain Windham only looked at him as if he were waiting for him to leave, and so, in the end, that was what he did. 

Keith indeed found the time to pass rather slowly. He read, he looked out of the window and observed the street, he spoke politely and kindly to the young maidservant who brought his food and emptied his chamber-pot, he made plans of escape, one more fantastic than the next, and he wrote in his pocket-book, with smaller and smaller letters, since it was almost at an end. And he lay on the bed and tried not to think about Ardroy. 

By his third evening as an involuntary guest in the Moir household, he had narrowed down his ideas for escape into one that he thought might really have a chance of succeeding, and when darkness had fallen, Keith Windham went from thought to action. 

The next morning, Ewen was eating breakfast when he saw one of the men who had guarded Captain Windham's room that night come towards him, looking rather apprehensive. 

'Yes, Dougal?' he said. 

The man took off his bonnet and stood twisting it in his hands. 'Mac 'ic Ailein, your prisoner…' 

'Yes? Out with it,' said Ewen impatiently. 

'I swear it isn't our fault! But he's escaped.' 

'Escaped?' Ardroy's blue eyes flashed rather dangerously as he got to his feet. 

'One of us was always on guard! You never told us to watch the window.' 

'The window? How could he have—' Ewen made a small sound of frustration. 'I'll come and look.' And he headed towards the Moir house with long strides, Dougal in his wake. 

Reaching the house, he could immediately see the means by which Keith Windham had made good his escape. From the small second-storey window hung a makeshift rope, made of strips of bedclothes and blanket, braided for strength. Its end dangled perhaps eight feet above the street, which distance Captain Windham had apparently dropped. 

Ardroy frowned at the offending rope—it seemed that he had underestimated his prisoner's ingenuity. He ascended the stairs to the room, where the other guard waited anxiously. 

'We left the rope there, for you to see,' explained Dougal. 

'You did quite right,' allowed Ewen. 'And no, it was not your fault.' 

He went to the window, which was really quite small—he was not sure that he himself would have been able to squeeze out of it, but then Windham was somewhat more slightly built. Across the window lay a chair-leg, to which the rope was fastened, for there was no place on the window itself, or on the wall, where it might have been tied. 

Ewen looked out the window and shuddered. What if the chair-leg had snapped, or shifted so that one end slipped out the window? Or if the rope had broken, or the knots come loose? It did not look very sturdy, and to lower oneself out, in the dark of night, without being able to see how far it was to the ground, or how far above it the rope would end...no, Windham certainly did not lack courage. Ewen had to admit to a certain admiration. 

On the small table by the bed lay three guineas and a note: 

_To reimburse the Household for the destroy'd Bed-clothes and Chair._

_My Apologies,  
Keith Windham, Captain_

But, unlike the last time Captain Windham had attempted to escape, there was no letter for Ewen. Frustrated, he clenched his fist. He might never find out, now, why the man had grown so cold towards him. Captain Windham was an enigma, and Ewen could not puzzle him out, and could not even say why he cared so much about it, for the man was his enemy. 

But of course, there was the prophecy, and if it should come true, they might yet meet again...

He realised that he was standing there gazing down at Windham's signature, so he shook off his mood and went down to settle the accounts with the household for the erstwhile prisoner's bed and board, and reassure them that his escape was certainly not their fault. 

Perhaps it was not too late to catch him again—that uniform, if he was still wearing it, would easily be spotted. Ewen would spread the word, at least, but in all probability he would not be wearing it now. 

Indeed, he was not, and he was by now halfway down the Firth of Tay. 

Although she was employed in a Jacobite household, Kirsty, the maidservant who had attended Keith, was not as loyal to the Prince as they were—in fact, she did not care a whit whose royal bottom sat on the throne—and she had not been averse to taking Keith's money in exchange for procuring him a cheap grey coat and finding a merchant vessel that would leave at dawn for Edinburgh. 

Windham took deep breaths of the sea air, glad to be out of that stuffy room. In Edinburgh, he would go to the garrison at the Castle and report: his two weeks' captivity might yet prove of some use, for he had learnt quite a bit about the rebels' numbers, resources and movements. 

And he had left Ardroy behind—in all likelihood, he would never meet that young man who had so discomposed him again. It was for the best, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Charles Edward Stuart set out for Scotland in July 1745 in actual history, he had two ships: the smaller _Doutelle_ and the larger _Elizabeth_ , which carried 700 men of the Irish Brigade along with lots of arms (the Irish Brigade was part of the French army). But the _Elizabeth_ encountered the British HMS _Lyon_ and was so badly off afterwards that she had to turn back. In this alternate history, the branching point is that _Elizabeth_ never encountered the _Lyon_ , and arrived in Scotland with Charles Edward Stuart. This has knock-on effects, because when Charles has a French regiment with him, it is much easier for him to recruit—this was in fact the precondition that a lot of the clans had set in order to join a Stuart rising. You see the Frasers joining up, for example, when in actual history they waited to join the Jacobite army until 1746, before Culloden.
> 
> This same divergence also causes Keith to get caught when he tries to escape in Fassefern, because he sees a pile of swords brought in the _Elizabeth_ and goes another way in order to take one of them. 
> 
> In actual history, General John Cope never went over the Corryarrick, but instead took Wade's road north to Inverness, only to later make his way back to Edinburgh and be defeated at the battle of Prestonpans instead. One of the two historical men that Keith Windham is based on, Captain Sweetenham, was captured with his company of recruits, like Keith, but Sweetenham was paroled for the length of the campaign and let go, and he made his way back to Edinburgh from the Great Glen. But while doing so, he met Cope and warned him about the strength of the Jacobite army, and this is part of the reason why Cope went to Inverness instead (though he was also warned by Duncan Forbes, the laird of Culloden). So Keith failing to escape in Fassefern can actually be seen as the cause of the battle of Corryarrick. : ) 
> 
> The battle of Corryarrick is modelled fairly closely on the battle of Prestonpans, with some changes, obviously. In actual history, many of the unwounded redcoat prisoners did enlist with the Jacobites, as I have them doing here, but a fair number of them deserted later on. 
> 
> Keith's colonel, James St Clair, is never mentioned in canon, but he is a historical person. So is Charles Stewart of Ardsheal, though Ewen's Stewart cousins from Invernacree are made up by Broster. Alan Stewart is mentioned by name in _The Dark Mile_ as Ian's brother; he died at Culloden in _Flight of the Heron_ , though is not mentioned in that book. 
> 
> Seo dhuibh, a Mhic 'ic Ailein = Here you go, Son of Allan (the name is in the vocative).  
> Tapadh leibh, a Mhoraig = Thank you, Morag (vocative again…)  
> ceann-cinnidh = head of the family, chief


	3. Part II: Give You Into My Hands

Captain Windham paced the battlements, looking down at the city of Edinburgh, the western part of which the castle commanded by virtue of its guns, but the rest of which they could only watch the Jacobites hold with impunity. It was sunset, and the castle on its rock threw a long shadow over the city, much longer than the reach of its cannon. To the north, the Firth of Forth mirrored the darkening sky. 

Since escaping from the Jacobite army in the beginning of September, he had spent a month and a half in the castle, during which time he had seen that army take the city with laughable ease and not a shot fired. He wondered darkly when the reinforcements from Flanders would arrive. 

Keith did not much enjoy being shut in like this, but was too much of a professional to let it affect the execution of his duties. Not that there was much to do—to be sure, he had been attached to the garrison, which held two hundred men of Lascelles' 58th, and he was currently captain of the watch, but it had passed with no incident, as most of them did. 

'Captain Windham, sir!' It was Lieutenant-General Preston's young ensign. 'The General wants you immediately.' 

Windham turned command over to the sergeant and hurried to Preston's office, where he found the old general in his wheeled chair, with a gleam in his eye. 

'Captain Windham, there you are! You know the Pretender's son by sight, yes?'

'I do, sir,' allowed Keith. 

'Then I have a mission for you.' The general told him of the recent chance sighting, the party's entry into a house in the Grassmarket, the need for the utmost hurry. 'I have ordered troops to the gate; now go!'

Keith went. How he blessed Fate for having sent him to Glenfinnan! Already he saw his name in every news sheet as the captor of the Pretender's son. Having marched stealthily down the narrow close, Keith raised his lantern to make sure of the door. Yes, it must be this one; he knocked on it, and when there was no reply, knocked again. 

Well, this was no time for politeness—he stood back and ordered his men to beat down the door. He waited impatiently while they accomplished this; it seemed to take longer than necessary. But, finally, the door open, he entered and met the reproachful gaze of an elderly manservant who asked him in broad Scots why he had beaten the door down. Keith briskly stated his business, but it was clear the man would play innocent, and Keith brushed him aside, ordering his men to divide and search the house. 

Soon he heard the cry of 'Here's one o' them, sir—Lord, it's him himself!' 

Eagerly, Keith pushed through the door, but seeing immediately that the man in the room was too tall to be his quarry, he turned to his sergeant. 'That is not the Prince, you fool!' 

But on the heels of his disappointment, he slowly turned his head back, with a queer feeling in his chest, to the man who was not the Prince. He was in amber satin and lace now, such that Keith might almost not have recognised him, but he would know that face, that figure, that hair—even though it be powdered—anywhere. 

'Captain Cameron!' he exclaimed. 

'Captain Windham,' replied Ardroy coolly. 'I am glad to hear you acknowledge him Prince.' 

Keith flushed in irritation at his slip of the tongue—but no, that was a distraction. 'You are his aide-de-camp; he must be somewhere in the house.' 

Ardroy replied that the Prince was not here; that indeed it had been Ardroy himself who had been mistaken for him, and the ensuing verbal sparring lasted until Keith abruptly saw that it was a delaying tactic. Annoyed with himself, he ordered two soldiers to remain and guard Ardroy, and took the rest of them to search the house: a distasteful task, since he had to intrude on two ladies in their bedchambers, and fruitless, too. Had the Pretender's son been here at all, or had he escaped them? 

In no very good temper, Keith stalked back towards the room where he had left his adversary, the only fish their net had caught. And clearly, it was his duty to take him prisoner, no matter if he caught the main target of his raid or not—Ardroy was a chieftain and an aide-de-camp to the Pretender's son himself. 

However, Captain Windham would not abandon his main quest yet. There was no other door to this house, that he had seen from the outside, and they had searched the house itself as thoroughly as they could. Might there be some secret passage, or hiding-place…? Keith began to tap the panelling on his side of the wall, but when he came to the windows he naturally desisted, and on Ardroy's side, the wall against the close was surely too thin to conceal anything. He gave a sharp breath of frustration. 

No, he would have to accept that his quarry had flown, and it was dangerous to stay here too long—but there still remained the Cameron captain. 

Ardroy had not moved from his place at the writing-table; his chin was up in defiance, despite that they were nine to one, and his sword was drawn and lay across his lap. Not that Highland broadsword of his, this time, but a more slender court weapon—yet the gleam in his eye told Keith that he would use it, and Keith's attempts at persuading him otherwise yielded no results. 

Ardroy stood, light on his feet despite his height, and darted across to the corner of the room, where he could not be taken in flank or from behind. 

Keith hesitated. Should he order his men to take him? Damn the man—he did not wish to hurt him, which would be the inevitable result of setting eight soldiers with bayonets on him. With a vivid burst of memory, he recalled their last swordfight by the shore of Loch Eil, and Ardroy's sharp shake of the head, when that clansman had asked him whether he should come up behind Keith and hit him on the head. Well, he would treat him no worse. 

Keith drew his sword, and Ardroy's eyes seemed to sparkle with anticipation as he raised his. 

The clash of swords was loud in the enclosed room. If Keith had expected that his enemy would be easy to defeat when he had not his broadsword, he soon found out otherwise. The weapon was lighter, but Ardroy's strength and speed still told, and his longer reach somewhat compensated for the shorter length of his weapon. And perhaps most of all, he was cornered and fought for his freedom, while Keith, though his temper was indeed roused, did not, in his heart, even wish to take him prisoner. 

The two young north-country lads who had guarded the finely dressed Highlander stood back and gaped at the skilled swordplay. But their sergeant, middle-aged and experienced, was not overawed—he very slowly drew near the two combatants along the wall, and at an opportune moment, he brought down the butt of his musket on the Highlander's right arm. His sword clattered to the floor, out of his reach, and Keith just barely checked the movement of his own blade. 

'I did not ask you to do that!' said Captain Windham sharply to the sergeant. He might easily have wounded Ardroy! 

Then, turning to his opponent, Keith exclaimed, 'Are you hurt?' He was still out of breath from the exertion of the duel. 

Ardroy was rubbing his arm. 'Only bruised, I thank you.' 

'Fine thanks I get,' muttered the sergeant, and then something further, almost out of Keith's hearing, about gentlemen and their fancy duels. 

'You are my prisoner, Captain Cameron,' said Keith formally, and Ardroy, his gaze still defiant, glanced round the room at the soldiers with their bayonets, and his sword on the floor, and then nodded reluctantly. 

'I am,' he conceded. 

Keith picked up Ardroy's sword. 'Then come, for we must return to the castle at once.' 

Ardroy hesitated. 'May I not speak with Lady Easterhall and Miss Cochran first, to see that they are not disturbed?' 

'You may not,' replied Keith inflexibly, for he could well guess Ardroy's intention with such a stratagem—he was surprised that the Highland guard from the West Bow was not here already. 'I assure you they were treated well. Now come.' 

They hurried up the dark close, Ardroy surrounded by the soldiers, and when the castle gate had closed behind them, Keith dismissed the sergeant and his men. In the half-lit courtyard, Ardroy stood tall and aloof, still a fighter despite his court finery, as he had recently proved. 

Keith took a deep breath, and addressed him. 'Captain Cameron, I am sorry to have taken you prisoner, but it is the fortune of war, and it was my duty.' 

'I understand.' Ardroy bowed his head. 

'Your generous treatment of me in August has put me under a deep obligation, which I assure you I'll do my best to repay. Since you have many prisoners of ours, I will put you forward for an exchange—I am sure there are many officers in Perth whom the Government regards as valuable, if your side would give one of them up in exchange for you.' 

Ardroy relaxed a little. 'I would appreciate that very much.' 

'Now,' continued Captain Windham, 'will you give me your parole? You can have nothing to gain by not doing so, for if you do not, you will be imprisoned in one of the cells of the castle—not uncomfortable, I assure you, but perfectly secure. You could have no hope of escape or rescue.' 

Ardroy looked at him consideringly, and the way his chin rose slightly made Keith fear that he would be stubborn, but then he suddenly smiled. 'I'll give it—for one week.' 

Touché. Keith could not prevent his own answering smile, before he curbed it. 'I suppose I could not expect more. Now, I must report to General Preston, and you had best come along.' 

They found the general in his office. He listened to Keith's story, and shook his head. 'Well, I am sure you did your best, captain. And who is this courtier you bring me instead of the Pretender's son? 

Ardroy twitched a little at this description. 

'Captain Cameron of Ardroy is one of the Pretender's aides-de-camp, sir. He is the one who held me prisoner in August, and has given me his parole.' 

Lieutenant-General Preston raised his eyebrows at this. 'Has he? Well, he is your responsibility, then. We have not so many rooms for officers, and you have an empty bed in yours, as I recall. Keep him there.' 

'I thought we might exchange him for one of the captured officers in Perth, sir.' 

'To be sure, we might do that. I shall look into it.' 

They were dismissed. Keith wished the general had not practically ordered them to share quarters—surely he could have found another solution! He took refuge in his duty of hospitality. 

'Captain Cameron, are you hungry?' 

'No, but I thank you,' replied Ardroy. 

'Well then, it is late, and perhaps we should retire.' Keith led them to the officers' quarters, and his small room with its two beds and a window looking out over the stables and part of the thick surrounding wall of the castle. But the window was dark with autumn rain, and Keith lit a candle. 

'Here is your bed,' said Keith abruptly. 'I have an extra blanket you can borrow, but no bedsheets—I am sorry; I'll procure some tomorrow.' 

'No matter,' said Ardroy's deep voice beside him. 'I am used to sleeping on hillsides. Though I don't look it now, I suppose! Faith, I wish I had my ordinary clothes. I have not been decked out like this since I was in Paris.' 

'What was the occasion, if I may ask, in which I captured you? And was your...young gentleman...really there?'

'He was,' admitted Ardroy, 'though you'll forgive me if I do not say more than that.'

'Of course.' Keith wondered how close he had come to capturing him. 

'As for this finery,' added Ardroy, 'he was giving a ball at Holyrood House, and I was called away to accompany him at short notice.' 

Keith could not help picturing Ardroy at the ball, surely much sought after as a partner—he wondered that he was not married. 'We must parley with your people on the subject of the exchange, and you can ask for your clothes then, if you wish.' 

'Thank you, I would appreciate that.' 

'Well, I shall go to bed,' said Keith brusquely, feeling rather awkward, and cursing himself for it—as if sharing quarters were not a perfectly common thing to do among soldiers! He turned his back and began to unbutton his uniform coat, undressing down to his shirt. Getting into bed, he caught a glimpse of Ewen's tall figure, having shed his silk and lace and standing with his shirt round his bare legs, shaking the powder out of his loosed hair. It hung past his shoulders, and the candlelight brought out the red and gold of it. Keith turned to face the wall. 

'Good night,' said Ewen's low voice. Keith heard his quick breath as he blew out the candle, and the room was plunged into darkness. 

'Good night.' The bed creaked as his prisoner lay down on it. 

Keith lay wakeful and not in the least sleepy, and reflected on the irony of Fate: of all the Jacobite officers that he might have captured, it must be this one! Well, if he could get him exchanged, it need not be for very long. 

And until then? He had been correct but quite cold towards Ardroy, that last week of his own captivity, and the man had clearly wondered why. Keith did not think he could act that way towards him now—Ardroy was his responsibility, and they would be thrown into each other's company more than they had been on the road, when Ardroy had his duties and Keith could associate with the other paroled officers. And when he had spoken of his obligation to Ardroy—that had not been mere words, and it would be a poor repayment of his hospitality if Keith gave him an icy reception now. But neither did he need to be too familiar, of course. 

Having thus decided his course, Keith lay in the dark until he finally managed to sleep. 

Ewen awakened the next morning with a momentary confusion as to his whereabouts. Then, as he saw what had awakened him—Captain Windham getting dressed—he remembered. The tables had been turned, indeed. It was a small price to pay for the escape of the Prince, and he had accepted this as the likely outcome from the first moment he had turned back to secure the secret door. But he had not, of course, expected that his captor would be Keith Windham. Was the prophecy beginning to fulfil itself, then? 

That officer glanced at him briefly, then away. He was buttoning up his red uniform coat. 'Good morning, Captain Cameron. I'll take you to the officers' mess for breakfast.' 

'Good morning,' replied Ewen. He rose and began to dress, and Captain Windham turned his back on him to look out of the window. 

'I would lend you some ordinary clothes, but I'm afraid they would not fit you.'

'I thank you for the thought,' said Ewen, then, 'I am ready.' 

Ewen felt a trifle self-conscious about walking into the officers' mess in his court clothes. But though he did draw the eyes of the other officers, it was not his clothes that were to be the issue. They had sat down at a table and begun to eat when a burly officer their own age approached. 

'Is this your rebel prisoner?' asked the officer of Captain Windham, glancing briefly at Ewen. 

'It is, yes,' said Windham. 'Captain Roberts, this is Captain Cameron of Ardroy.'

Ignoring Windham's introduction, the other captain continued over Ewen's head, 'Should he not be locked up?' 

'He has given his parole of honour,' explained Windham calmly, though his mouth tightened. 

'And you have accepted it? From a rebel?' The man's mouth curled. 

Ardroy flushed, bringing his hand down to the hilt of his sword before he remembered that he wore none. But Windham gave him a brief quelling glance and stood. 

'And why should I not?' he said firmly. 'As you know, I was taken prisoner by the rebels in the Great Glen in August, and they accepted my parole. Indeed, they treated me with every civility, and even with hospitality. I heard no complaints from the officers taken prisoner at the battle of Corryarrick, who all gave their parole and are even now quartered at Perth with a very reasonable allowance, and the run of the town.' 

The other officer seemed taken aback by Windham's speech, which had been uttered at a tone audible to the whole room. 'If you say so, Captain,' he replied, though clearly not convinced. 

'I do say so. And I suggest you think twice before abandoning the accepted rules of war. We are not barbarians, after all, and I hope none of us wish our conduct to be worse than that of the rebels.' 

Captain Windham sat down, and Ewen looked at him, surprised and gratified. His captor had seemed rather abrupt with him since his capture, though perhaps not as cool in his manner as during the latter part of his own captivity, and Ewen had not expected such a determined speech in his defence. 

'I thank you,' he said in a low voice. The rest of the officers had looked away from them and Captain Roberts both, as if the subject was uncomfortable. 

'I should not have needed to say that, and I am ashamed that you had to hear him.' Windham looked rather mortified at the conduct of his fellow officer. 'You have not your sword, and cannot answer insults.' 

'That is true,' said Ewen. 'And I thank you yet again for it.' 

'It was the least I could do.' Windham bowed his head, and addressed himself to his breakfast. 

Ewen did likewise, though rather thoughtful. It had not occurred to him before that he had perhaps been lucky that it had been Keith Windham, and not some other officer, whom he had taken prisoner by the shore of Loch Oich. Having heard the opinions of Captain Roberts, he did not relish the thought of inviting the man to Ardroy. Did the majority of the officers here share his views? As they had said nothing during the altercation, it was difficult to tell. 

Wishing to lighten the mood, he asked Windham, 'Will you tell me of your escape from Perth?' 

That did surprise a smile from the English officer, and Ewen was glad to see it. 'I'm sure you found the means of my escape,' he said dryly. 

'I did, and cursed myself for not guarding against it. Though you might have fallen to your death!' 

Windham shrugged, as if dismissing the risk. 'Perhaps, but in the event, I did not. I was rather tired of that room by then.' 

'And where did you go, from there?'

'I found a merchant vessel bound for Edinburgh—it seemed easier than going overland.' 

'Of course,' said Ewen. 'Well, it was neatly done. I am not cut out to be a gaoler, I think.' 

That got him another quick smile. 'No, perhaps not. I confess I would not much enjoy it myself, so I'm relieved that you gave me your parole.' 

'I am sure you have others who can serve that purpose, in a fortress.' 

Windham looked at him sharply. 'Perhaps. But I am the one who took you prisoner, and I would still feel responsible for your welfare.' 

Ardroy reflected that he had perhaps been lucky in the captor that Fate had given him, as well as in the prisoner he had had. 

They soon found that they had no need to call for a parley, for after breakfast, a messenger told them that a Jacobite officer had come to enquire after Captain Cameron. The mood was tense between the garrison and the Prince's army, but less so since the latter had lifted the blockade, and the parley thus went forward at the gate. 

The elderly General Joshua Guest, who was in command as Governor, though somewhat undercut by his predecessor Lieutenant-General Preston, had sent one of his staff officers, Major Webber, to the parley. 

'Archie!' exclaimed Ewen, as they saw him through the open gate, along with two Cameron clansmen. Neither Lachlan nor Neil was of the party, and Ewen thought that was rather for the best, since their talents did not include diplomacy. 

'My dear Ewen,' said Archie. 'I am very glad to see you unharmed.' 

'What is this, a family gathering?' Ewen heard the major mutter behind him. 

'Literally so, sir,' replied Captain Windham. 

Ewen restrained himself, and the parley went forward between Major Webber and Lieutenant-Colonel Cameron, concluding not in a definite agreement for an exchange, since there was not yet a cartel set up, but Ewen thought the prospects sounded good once the formalities were in place. 

'Archie, may I ask you to send me some other clothes?' Ewen managed to say, before the gate closed between him and his cousin. 

'Yes, of course,' was the quick reply. Ewen stared at the closed gate. The brief glimpse of his cousin and of those Cameron tartans had uplifted his spirits more than he could say, but now they were gone. 

But he needed only to wait, tiresome as that would be—surely he would soon be able to rejoin his clan. 

In the afternoon, a messenger brought Ewen two shirts, along with his philabeg and plaid. Much relieved, he shed his satin finery—he would certainly stand out no less among the Elector's officers, but he would be proud to wear his tartan again. 

'I see you do not grace us with your court dress any longer,' was his captor's dry remark. Extraordinarily handsome as he had been in that fine clothing, Keith Windham in fact found him even more handsome in his kilt and plaid—but he would not have owned that under torture.

'No, I am relieved to be rid of it,' said Ewen. 

The next day found Ewen seated at the small table between the beds, looking out onto the sunlit stable pensively, while intermittently writing a letter to Aunt Marget at Ardroy. He had been assured he might send it, if he submitted to having it read first—but it would hardly contain any military secrets. 

Yesterday evening Ewen had asked Windham if he might have some paper and a pen for writing letters, and his captor had procured those supplies for Ewen along with a small book to write in, saying that he himself had found that keeping a journal helped to pass the time, during his own captivity. It was quite thoughtful of him, and Ewen had thanked him. Captain Windham now had the watch, and Ewen had retired to their room rather than intrude on his duties, or expose himself to the company of the other officers. 

The captive Highlander leaned his chin on his hands, gazing upon the prospect before him: all the courtyard was bare grey stone, except for some sorry strips of green grass along the sides. Had it not been for the sunshine, he would have found it a bleak view indeed. 

He wondered how affairs stood at Ardroy. Oh, to see Loch na h-Iolaire surrounded by its autumn finery, the golden birches, the red of the rowan berries! And on such a day, he would swim in it too, no matter that Aunt Marget called him crazy: the shock of the clear chilly water, so cold that he could hardly feel his toes when he left the water at last, and then the tingling exhilaration when his blood ran hot as he dried off. And one never knew whether it was the last swim of the season: whether there would be more fine days, or if the autumn storms would sweep in. 

Ewen sighed wistfully, his thoughts far away from his Edinburgh prison. They would have got the harvest in, he trusted, though it must have been hard work with most of the able-bodied men in the army. But that could not be helped, and Aunt Marget would have managed the work well. 

Although she would keep dropping hints that it was past time that Ardroy had a lady to help Ewen and her with the management of the estate, and give him children to run round the house. The prospective bridegroom made a grimace at this reminder. It was a year since Alison Grant had broken off their engagement, and perhaps it was not strange that three years of waiting had weakened the bond that they had forged during Ewen's time in Paris. He was not at all averse to the idea of marriage, in itself—it was only that, despite the attention he himself often received, of which he was usually unaware, it was rare for him to meet a woman to whom he was attracted. 

Sometimes, though just as rarely, he was attracted to men instead, which was of course not conducive to marriage. He had spent several years in his youth ardently admiring his distant Cameron cousin Alasdair, who was two years older than him and lived in Achnacarry. Ewen could admit now, years afterward, that his assiduous practise with the sword had partly been in a vain hope of impressing him. But that, of course, could never have come to anything, and Alasdair was now married with three children. 

During his time in Paris, he had, to his surprise, been approached by men as well as women, and out of the wish to explore this hidden and forbidden side of himself, he had dallied with one of them. But the affair had been brief, for the man had turned out to be rather jealous, and in any case, Ewen had felt no serious bond with him. As for the physical side of it, well...

A knock on the door, and as Captain Windham entered the room, Ewen rather blushed at the thoughts which the arrival of the English officer had interrupted. And he had not even managed to finish his letter! Well, if there was anything which he did not now lack, it was time. 

But, to his embarrassment, he lost track of it to such an extent that when, a few days later, Windham approached him on the subject of his parole, he exclaimed, 'I had quite forgotten 'twould run out today!' 

Captain Windham raised an eyebrow, and did not comment that it was the second time he had forgotten the end of a parole. 'Will you renew it, Captain Cameron? I need not say that the circumstances have not changed since you gave it the first time.' 

'No, indeed...and I suppose you would not conveniently have left your uniform coat on your bed, for me to disguise myself with.' 

That made Windham laugh, which had rather been Ewen's object. He could not help liking the way that Windham's brief smiles transformed his face, and was pleased whenever he managed to elicit such an expression from him. 

'I would not,' replied Windham, 'but I imagine it would not have fit you. And in any case, your appearance is rather distinctive—your height, and that hair of yours...I think you might not have got past the guard at the gate. ' 

'Perhaps not,' said Ewen regretfully. 'Well, I'll extend my parole for a week—you cannot ask better than that.' 

'Ha. I suppose I cannot.'

* * *

On a misty morning a couple of days later, Keith was standing on the battlements, frowning down at the city as if it had offended him—but the city itself was innocent, and it was difficult to say where the true cause of his displeasure was to be found. He had thought that Ardroy's captivity would be of short duration, given the many officers available for exchange who could surely be put to better use than idling in Perth, but despite General Preston's not seeming averse to the idea, final approval was not forthcoming, and no cartel had yet been set up. 

Captain Windham was well used to the inevitable delays of bureaucracy, but this seemed something else. Captain Roberts' hostile outburst at supper the first evening now seemed rather ominous to him in hindsight—Keith did not think that Roberts' attitude was shared by a majority of the other officers, for several of them had come to him privately afterwards and agreed with him—but he had heard some indications that, high in the army command, several of the generals were against setting up a cartel at all. Keith recalled his conversation with Ardroy at Invergarry Castle, about the potential savagery of a civil war, and his later relief when he saw how well the Jacobites treated their prisoners. He had certainly not thought then that his own side might behave worse! 

A movement at his side, and he saw Ardroy's tall figure standing a few feet away, likewise looking down at the city. The mist softened the colours of his tartan into muted red and green. His profile looked thoughtful and perhaps a little sad, though Keith soon turned his head away for fear of being caught looking at him too long. 

Keith wondered whether he ought to bring up his fears about the lack of the hoped-for cartel—but no, he would wait until he heard something definite. 

'Look—what is that?' said Ardroy, pointing down at a movement at the Cowgate Port, just visible now as the mist was lifting. 

It seemed to be the movement of troops, marching out of the city, and now they could hear also the pipes playing, the distant but intense noise slicing through the calm of the morning. 

'I had meant to tell you,' said Keith. 'I heard just after breakfast that the Jacobite forces are leaving Edinburgh.' It would hardly be a secret much longer. 

'Leaving?' Ardroy made a small frustrated noise, and leaned over the battlement as if that would bring him closer to escape. 

Keith saw the pent-up energy of him, a man who was used to ranging free on the hills, and could not help feeling for him. 'You wish to march with them, I can see.' 

'Yes! I am not good for anything, shut up in this place. And my men—' The Highlander sighed, then glanced at Keith in apology. 'I know 'tis not your fault—you are only doing your duty.' 

'I would have felt the same, in your place—did feel the same,' said Keith quietly. 

'Thank you.' He sighed again, looking down at the city. 'I don't suppose you know where they are going? No, of course you could not tell me, even if you did.' 

'I have no idea,' said Keith truthfully. 'You don't know, either?' 

'I believe it had not been decided yet, when I was captured. I wonder do they mean to leave any men behind at all, to hold the city?' There was a troubled look on Ardroy's face. 

Keith was wondering the same thing, but thought it did not look like it. In that case, he would soon have more to do than pace the battlements, and perhaps not be thrown into Ardroy's company quite so much. 

The thought was as much regret as relief to him. The coldness which he had affected towards Ardroy during the latter half of his own imprisonment was something he did not think he was capable of showing towards him at present. And Ardroy's manner towards him—so open and warm, though perhaps that was only because they were thrown together, and Keith was the only person he knew in the least. In any case, Keith could not help responding to it with a like warmth. 

Nor could he help responding to his physical presence. Their room was rather small, and it was hard to avoid brushing up against each other now and then, and Keith was excruciatingly aware of every instance of it. And Ewen's concentration when he shaved each morning, his head leaning to one side as he handled the razor with a sure hand—Keith wanted to feel the smooth skin of his jaw, and the stubble that preceded it. He wanted to unbraid the plait of his hair and bury his hands in it, wanted to tug him close and...well, he tried to not go further in his imaginings, both to save himself frustration and because it would not be fair to Ardroy. But he often failed. 

Keith gritted his teeth and endured it, and waited for the inevitable end to this prolonged torture, whenever it would come. 

'Captain Windham, sir?' came a voice behind him, and he and Ardroy both turned. It was an ensign sent for Keith, and he promptly took his leave of Ardroy, who was left to watch from the battlements as the garrison took possession again of the city that had temporarily belonged to the Jacobites. 

Captain Windham spent the next several days at this work, which was not strictly military in nature, for there was no military resistance. There was only a city divided within itself, where those Jacobite citizens who for so long had bided their time and who had then tasted sweet victory for weeks were now unwilling to cede their ground back to the Whigs, who for their part often wished to take revenge for their humiliation. And then there were those who were simply caught in between. It was a matter of patrolling the streets and keeping the peace, and Keith was glad it was not his task to do anything about the civil administration, which he had heard was nearly in a state of anarchy, the Jacobites having installed new magistrates and baillies and appropriated the cess, the excise and the customs for themselves, though not, notably, the hated malt tax. Untangling this new structure and re-installing the old seemed to be rather a challenge. 

The garrison, being only two hundred men, was stretched rather thin, until a week later when General Handasyde arrived with two regiments of foot, recently shipped to Newcastle from Flanders. About time, Keith thought. 

But he thought Handasyde rather harsh in his handling of the city—it was not a hostile town under occupation, after all. And yet, he could have had no inkling of Handasyde's next step; indeed, he almost failed to believe it when he was told the news by Major Webber, the officer in charge of the negotiations for Ardroy's possible exchange. 

'What?' said Keith, rather stupidly. 

'You heard me, Captain,' said Major Webber grimly. Keith respected him—he was a grizzled and capable staff officer to General Guest. 

'But...how can they think that the officers in question would break their parole, sir? I certainly would not.' 

'I imagine you would not, Captain. Nor would I. And even aside from the breach of their honour, which is certainly considerable—I wonder what the Jacobites will do, in consequence, if they capture any more officers. They will certainly not put any trust in our honour.' 

They both pondered this eventuality in silence. 

'Well, there is always the chance that the officers will refuse, en masse,' said Windham finally. But he remembered Captain Roberts' attitude with unease. 

'Refusing orders is not done lightly,' replied Major Webber. 'I do not envy their position.' 

Keith was too ashamed to bring this up with Ardroy during the afternoon, and they chanced to eat supper early, before most of the other officers, so that they did not overhear any discussion of it. And then Keith went to his evening patrol with relief. By gad, he would have to tell his prisoner some time, but he was not looking forward to it! 

But during the course of his duties, as he kept order among drunk townsfolk on the Grassmarket, a new thought struck him, and it was a chilling one. If the parole of their own officers was not respected, what of Ardroy's parole? He had recently prolonged it for a third week. What might be done with him—imprison him despite it? Or worse? Well, Keith was the one who held his parole, and he would protest to the utmost any ill treatment of him. 

And then Keith had a further realisation, and he stopped where he was, amid the carousing and drunken song that echoed from the stone streets and buildings. He was used to war between sovereign states, but this, as he had previously noted, was a civil war. If the Jacobites lost, which he trusted that they would do, the officers of that army might very likely be executed for treason. _Ardroy_ might be executed for treason, and if it was done with due process, Keith could have no reasonable objection to it. All the care he was taking now to ensure that Ardroy was treated well might be in vain. 

It was not as though he had not known this already—indeed, he recalled now that he had thought of it when he had first been brought to Ardroy, when he tried to persuade his host not to join the rebellion. He had cared enough even then to make that attempt to spare him the consequences, but now—Keith felt queasy at the prospect. 

He racked his brain to remember the aftermath of the rebellions of the '15 and '19. Keith had been but a small child then, of course, and he had never thought it might be relevant to his life. He recalled that there had been forfeitures, but how many executions had there been? Many of the leaders had, perhaps, fled the country. And Ardroy was only a minor officer, perhaps too minor to make an example of—at least he could hope so. 

'Sir?' queried one of his men, and Windham shook off his thoughts and returned to his present duties. But his worries only submerged, and after his patrol, as he climbed the steep close up towards the castle, they came to the fore again. 

This was what came of attachment, thought Keith grimly, his old cynicism surfacing. He had known the danger of it, and yet he had let himself feel not just desire, which was perhaps not problematic in itself, but had let another person begin to matter to him too much, so that he opened himself to the possibility—no, the high likelihood—of pain, on account of it. 

He entered their shared bedroom to find that Ardroy had not gone to bed, but was sitting by the light of a single candle, writing in the book that Keith had given him. Foolishly, Keith found himself warmed by the fact that he used it. 

Ewen turned and regarded him, with a thoughtful look on his face. 'Is it raining?' 

'Oh—perhaps,' said Keith. 'I didn't notice. I will take off my wet cloak in the corner, and not drip all over the room.' 

He did so, hung his sword there likewise, and came to sit on his bed, legs crossed and back against the wall. Before he could delay or overthink it, he said, 'There is something I must tell you.' 

'Yes?' said Ewen. The soft light of the candle illumined his face as he closed his book and set aside the pen, then gave Keith his full attention. 

But Keith, not knowing how to begin, looked down at his hands. He took a deep breath. 'I am...deeply ashamed of what I must tell you, and troubled at its implications.' 

When he looked up, Ardroy was regarding him steadily, waiting. 

'General Handasyde intends to send an expedition to Perth,' said Keith, almost harshly, 'to...liberate by force...those officers who are paroled there.' There, it was said. 

Ardroy was silent for a moment, then asked, 'And have the officers in Perth asked for this...rescue?' His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it. 

'Not to my knowledge,' said Keith, then added with some force, 'I, for one, would never accept it!' 

'I did not think you would.' 

'I have heard that he will order them to return to their duties,' said Keith, the words bitter in his mouth. 'Oh, you need not remind me of our conversation at Invergarry! I was treated with nothing but honour, and now my own side—oh, I cannot bear it.' 

He turned his head away, feeling that he could not look Ardroy in the eye. 

'Windham,' he heard Ewen's deep voice say gently. ''Tis not your fault.' 

No, perhaps not, but it was the fault of his superiors, which he followed. 

'I suppose the officers may refuse,' said Keith. 'We must hope so. But what worries me—' and here he looked at Ardroy again, '—is what it means for you.' 

'For me?' Ardroy frowned. 

'Yes. You, too, are on parole, and if Handasyde does not accept that...but you are my responsibility, and I tell you that I will let nothing happen to you!' His voice was perhaps more intense than he had intended, and he coloured. 

'I had not thought of it, but you are right. Let us hope it does not come to that,' said Ardroy grimly. 

It was late, and they prepared thereafter for bed, Keith with his back turned, as usual. But before he went to his bed, he was arrested by a hand on his shoulder. 

'What you said—I thank you for it,' said Ewen in a low voice. 

Keith felt the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of his shirt, and his heartbeat sped up. He swallowed, and made he knew not what reply. 

During the following days, the scheme to 'rescue' the paroled officers went forward, the expedition being ferried across the firth and then descending on Perth. Both Ewen and his captor waited anxiously for their return, and Ewen found himself spending more time in their room to avoid drawing attention to himself, instead of wandering the battlements. Proud as he was, he found this somewhat difficult to swallow, but Windham urged him to it, as he felt that he could not fully ensure his prisoner's safety when he was on patrol. 

And then, one afternoon, Windham burst into the room. 'They are returned,' he said grimly. 

'And?' Ewen stood, to hear his reply. 

'Most of them would not come, at first, and had to be urged under threat of force. That is to their credit, of course—Major Severin has lodged a protest on behalf of a fair number of the officers, who still refuse to take up the sword. But...there are also those who accept it—who have broken their parole.' 

Captain Windham's frown was darker than usual, and he did not quite meet Ewen's eyes. Ewen could not help but feel for him, though his opinion of the Hanoverian command was sunk quite beyond recovery. 

'And what do the officers here say?'

Windham spread his hands. 'Opinions are divided, and there are harsh words said. No one has said anything to you?' 

Ewen shook his head. 'No, but...I can feel them looking at me, when I go out.' 

Perhaps in some ways it would have been better if he had not his plaid and kilt, when they drew such attention—but no, he would never be ashamed of wearing his tartan! 

'You must tell me at once, if anyone does, and I'll deal with it.' 

But the next day would bring a new complication. Ewen had kept to their room for much of it, at times writing in his journal, or perusing Windham's copy of Bland's _Treatise of Military Discipline_ from 1743, which was surely a worthwhile way to spend his captivity—he had learnt quite a bit from it over the days. But today he had not the concentration to read of complicated manoeuvres that he was not sure would be useful to Highlanders (though it was surely useful to know the enemy's way of thinking). 

Instead, he took to pacing back and forth the short distance from the door to the desk. He felt like a caged animal, no matter that he was, in theory, free to leave the room, and felt somewhat of a coward too, for staying. Though Windham was no doubt right that it was for the best. 

Oh, to march for England with the Prince! For that was, he was sure, where the army had gone—he had said quite honestly to Captain Windham that he did not know, but he had heard enough of the alternatives to guess. Would they now have taken Carlisle, or had they instead laid siege to the fortress at Berwick-upon-Tweed, and then gone on to Newcastle? And then farther south...

His blood was up at the thought of it—he would far rather be on the march, even in the freezing sleet and rain, than uselessly shut up here. Ewen hoped his men had been persuaded to go on, rather than return to Ardroy, when he had been captured. Lachlan and Neil would surely understand his wishes in this matter, and make it clear to them. 

The door opened, hitting Ewen in the shoulder.

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' exclaimed Windham. 

''Tis no matter—I was only pacing the room,' said Ewen, embarrassed. 

'I should have knocked. And I'm sorry you should be shut up here—you have given your parole and should be free of the castle. But I have news,' he said abruptly, and there was a tension and energy to him that made the room feel too small to hold both of them. 

'What news, then?' said Ewen, meeting the spark in Windham's eyes. 

'I am called to London, to rejoin my regiment—they have been recalled from Flanders.' 

And Ewen could sense in Keith that same longing for useful action that he also felt, and guessed that he was happy to leave his garrison duty. But what, then, of Ewen? 

He did not ask the question, but Windham replied to it all the same. 'I mean to take you with me if I can—if, that is, you think it a good course of action?' 

Ardroy raised his eyebrows. 'I am your prisoner—ought you ask that of me?' 

'I would hardly do so, ordinarily,' said Keith, with a hint of his dry tone. When he continued, his voice was serious. 'But this is not an ordinary situation.' 

His eyes met Ewen's and their gazes locked, and Ewen felt a sort of charge between them, as if they were about to cross swords, but it was not hostile, at all. Puzzled, he looked away, then shook himself, rather like a big red dog, to diffuse the tension. 

'No, I suppose it is not ordinary,' he replied to Windham's statement. 'And since you ask me, I would rather trust myself to you, who have proven your honour more than once, than take my chances here with those who have compromised theirs.' 

And he would perhaps be brought closer to where his Prince and Lochiel were, and his men, though he did not say that. 

'I hope that I can prove worthy of your trust, and that wiser heads prevail among the London generals,' said Windham, presumably contrasting them with Handasyde. 'I will speak to my superiors, and argue that since I hold your parole, I should take you with me.' 

'How shall we travel? Presuming, of course, that I'll be allowed to go.' 

'There is a ship in Leith Roads now, leaving tomorrow morning,' said Windham. 

He left again, closing the door behind him. Ewen waited now with even greater impatience, powerless as he was to decide his own fate—he could only trust to Windham. 

'I can take you with me,' said his captor tersely when he appeared again. 'And come, we will have supper early.' 

Ewen did not know how much he could ask directly, but a few careful remarks during supper drew from Windham the information that he had not asked General Handasyde, who indeed might not even be aware of Ardroy's existence (he hoped not), nor Guest, but had approached Preston, who seemed the most likely to be well disposed. But he did not say whether he had been difficult to convince. 

After supper, they discussed again the matter of Ewen's parole, and he agreed that he would extend it until they should reach London. Ewen was thereupon left alone again, and he looked upon the walls of the small room with the satisfaction of knowing it to be the last day that he should see them. 

Windham did not return until late, and Ewen persevered with Bland's treatise. A little amused, he wondered whether Windham had considered that by leaving it in his room, he was letting his enemy acquire more knowledge of military matters—or perhaps he considered the contents general knowledge. 

Windham shed his cloak, wet again, and by silent agreement they prepared for bed. Ewen noted again that the English officer always kept his back turned while they did so, and felt ashamed that he had teased him about his modesty, back in the Highlands. 

When they were both abed, Ewen was about to blow out the candle when he remembered a subject which he had meant to bring up. He did not know whether they would have any privacy on the ship, so...

'Windham,' he said in a low voice. 'I am sorry for disturbing you, but—there is something I have meant to tell you.' 

'Yes, Captain Cameron?' Windham sat up, with the blanket over his legs. 

'Oh, do not be so formal—Ardroy will do.' 

'Ardroy, then,' he said. Keith leaned back against the wall opposite Ewen, though there was a little stiffness to his posture even now, when he was in his nightshirt. 'What do you wish to tell me? 

Ewen put his pillow against the wall and leaned back on it, trying to think how best to put it. Windham would no doubt think him silly, but…

'You met my foster-father, Old Angus, back at Ardroy. He claims to have the two sights, or the second sight, as you would call it.' 

Windham raised an eyebrow, and looked as though he might say something sardonic. 

'No, hear me out first, and then you may laugh, if you wish. He told me, before we met, that I should soon meet with a man whose destiny would in some unknown way be bound up with mine, and that I should meet him through the agency of a heron.' 

Keith frowned. 'Do you know, your foster-brother told me something of the kind, during my misadventure up at their cottages, at Ardroy. And I remember that you looked disturbed, when I told you what had brought my horse down, at Loch Oich. But I never took it seriously.' 

'So you remember that? Yes, that is why I was disturbed. He told me that we would meet five times, and that the first and the last time would be by water. And that I would do you a great service, and cause you a bitter grief.' He added quietly, 'Though I declare, I have no wish to cause you grief.' 

'You do not seriously think this will come to pass?' Keith said, in what might have been an attempt at scorn, but it did not come out that way. 

'I don't know,' said Ewen thoughtfully. 'But I thought you should know.' 

'I never thought we should meet again, after Perth,' said Keith quietly. The candlelight fell softly on the folds of his shirt, which opened at the throat to reveal the fair skin there, and showed a hint of the dark hair on his chest. Ewen wished he went without a wig more often—his own short dark hair suited him, and there was something about seeing him without his wig, and without his coat, too, which—

Oh. It came to Ewen then, perhaps somewhat belatedly, that he found Keith Windham attractive. He studied him further in the light of this realisation, until Keith turned his gaze away, for Ewen had rather been staring at him. 

'Sorry,' said Ewen, a little embarrassed, and cast about to recover the thread of the conversation. 'No, neither did I. When you escaped in Perth, I had quite forgotten about Old Angus' prophecy. Until I saw you again in Edinburgh—it came back to me then.' 

He added impulsively, 'And I own that I would regret never seeing you again.' 

Keith coloured a little. 'Yes,' he said, and it seemed at first that he would say more, but he did not. 

Instead he straightened, and said abruptly, 'It is late, and we should sleep. I thank you for telling me of this—this prophecy, but regardless of whether it comes true or not, I don't see what practical consequences it can have for our actions.' 

Ewen studied him, wondering what he was thinking. But he only said, 'You are right, of course. Sleep well, then.' 

Windham wished him the same, and Ewen blew out the candle. 

But he lay awake for some while. The study of Keith was now denied him by the darkness, but he could examine his own mind, and when he cast back over their acquaintance, several things emerged in a new light. He remembered how troubled he had been over his prisoner's coldness during the latter half of his captivity, which, if Ewen had cared nothing about him, would surely not have bothered him. And he could picture, quite vividly, how Keith Windham had sat on the floor of Invergarry Castle, relaxed and smiling, tongue loosened by the wine. Had Ewen been attracted to him even then? It was impossible to tell, for of course memory was coloured by present emotion. 

As he relaxed towards sleep, he listened for Keith's breathing, aware of him in a new way, or perhaps, newly conscious of his own awareness.

* * *

Leaving the room early the next morning, Ewen had no baggage save his spare shirt and the journal Windham had given him, which he secreted in a fold of his plaid. His court clothes he had sent away with the same messenger who had brought his ordinary clothes, for he hardly thought he should need them. 

'Let me take one of your bags,' said Ewen, slinging it over his shoulder. 'I have none, after all.' 

'Thank you,' said Windham, a little stiffly. They left the room without looking back. 

It was early, the sky just beginning to grow light with dawn, as they walked down the narrow streets from the Castle, and then through open countryside towards the port at Leith. 

'Ah, I miss my sword,' Ewen sighed, seeing the one at Windham's side and feeling the lack of his own. 

'At least I only took your court sword,' replied Windham in a dry tone. 'Mine was a good one—is it at Ardroy still?' 

'No, I gave it to one of my tenants, since we had not enough of them. I am sorry. But yes, you are right—you did not take my broadsword, for which I am grateful.' 

'The spoils of war, I suppose,' said Keith philosophically. 'But I have meant to ask you, since I've never used one of them—are not your Highland broadswords heavy to use?' 

'Oh no—that is, I suppose they are heavier, by weight alone,' said Ewen, warming to the subject. 'But they are so well balanced, with the extra weight in the basket-hilt, that they almost feel lighter. And of course, the hilt is good protection for the hand, too.'

'Hm, interesting.' 

'At a happier time, I will be glad to lend you mine, to try it,' Ewen added. 

That won him one of Keith's genuine smiles, usually rare and quickly gone, and quite different from his usual sardonic ones. Ewen wondered when he had become such a connoisseur of the man's smiles. 

'Thank you, I should enjoy that.' 

They had reached the port now. Gulls circled overhead, raucously squabbling over piles of refuse, and the mingled smell of rank fish and seaweed made Ewen wrinkle his nose. A tender waited for them at the quay, and they were rowed out to the Royal Navy ship, moored in Leith Roads, which had only been waiting on their arrival before weighing anchor. 

Captain Windham was briefly welcomed to the HMS _Calypso_ by the captain, but he was clearly too busy to waste time on them, and they found a spot on deck where they seemed to be least in the way. Everywhere round them were men, working in what to Ewen was a chaos of ropes, sails and implements he could not have named, but he could tell that to the sailors it was a well-ordered and efficient world, and indeed they were already gathering speed as the ship stood out from land. 

The wind was clean and strong, sweeping away the smells of the port. Ewen took deep breaths of it, and squinted into the glitter of the sun on the sea. 

'You are smiling,' observed Windham. 'Do you like the sea, then?' 

Ewen had not been aware of his smile, but he now turned it on Keith. 'I have only been on shipboard twice, going to and from France for my education, but I have been in boats on the sea lochs, of course. And yes, I suppose I do like it. And you?' 

Windham gave him the smile which was almost a grimace. 'When I am on shipboard, it is usually when my company is on a transport. They are crammed into a small space and half of them are seasick, the horses suffer, and the sailors think we are useless ballast who are only in the way. So no, I usually do not much enjoy it.' 

'I am sorry for that—I hope I'll be less trouble to you. But to tell you the truth, I am happy just to breathe fresh air and be out of that room!' 

'I was getting tired of the castle myself,' confessed Windham. 

The activity on the ship had calmed down somewhat, but now there was a new burst of it, as sails were adjusted and they turned south-east, out of the firth. Leith had long since disappeared behind them, and the rhythm of the waves changed, from the small chop of the firth to the long swells of the open sea. 

A small boy came up to Windham, to invite them to the captain's table for supper. In the meantime, they were shown to their cabin, which even in comparison with their previous room was tiny, and Ewen's head brushed the deckhead. 

Keith saw it, and raised an eyebrow. 'They can hardly take giants into account when building ships, you know.' 

Ewen flushed. 'This cabin could make anyone seem a giant.' 

Supper with the captain of the _Calypso_ and his officers passed with only one incident: the awkward and hostile silence that fell when Ewen did not raise his glass to King George. Windham stepped in to smooth it over, by remarking that if they had shared a meal with a French officer on parole, they would surely not have expected him to drink to the King, and the case of Captain Cameron was no different. But Ewen sensed that though the captain did not openly object to this, he felt that the situation was, indeed, different. 

They returned to the cabin well fed and well plied with wine and port, such that Ewen was not quite sure how much of the movement of the ship was due to the waves and how much to the effects of the liquor. 

As they undressed for bed, Ewen said, 'I thank you for your intervention with the captain at supper.' 

'You're welcome,' said Windham, and then he muttered, 'By gad, I'm sure I never expected that I would have to keep defending a stubborn Jacobite.' 

If they had had less to drink, Windham would probably never have made the comment, and even if he had, Ewen might not have reacted to it. 

But as it was, Ewen narrowed his eyes and replied, 'Stubborn, you say? I prefer the word "loyal".'

Keith gave an exasperated sigh. 'To a cause that was lost long before you were born? And to a dynasty whose last king wanted to force us all to bow to Rome?' 

The ship heeled over at an unexpected wave, and they both lost their balance, falling against the bulkhead. Fortunately it was not far to fall. 

Ewen pushed himself away from the tangle of their bodies and said hotly, 'Prince Charles' army has not lost any battles yet—I hardly think our cause is lost. And I suggest you read his Declaration if you think he means to force anyone to convert.' 

Windham braced himself against the bulkhead against the swaying of the ship, and replied with equal heat, 'Thank you, I do not need to—I have already pledged my loyalty to a King who will defend the liberties of our nation!' 

Ewen took a deep breath, meeting Windham's sharp gaze in the light of the lantern hanging on the wall. 'Faith, but I wish to reply to that. But I will not. I do not truly wish to quarrel with you, and I hope, when I let you have the last word, that you will not think me stubborn any longer.' 

Keith held his gaze for a moment, and then he smiled ruefully. 'You are right—we should not quarrel. It was I who made the first remark, and I apologise for it. Will you forgive me?' 

'I will, and gladly.' Ewen held out his hand. 

Windham took it in a firm clasp. 'Perhaps we may blame the wine. We both know the other's allegiance, after all, and if we were sober, we would know that there is no use debating it.' 

'And we should keep our voices down, too,' said Ewen, suiting his tone to his own admonition and looking at the canvas walls of the cabin, which were not conducive to privacy. 

Perhaps unfortunately, Ewen had found Keith Windham no less attractive when defending the merits of the Elector of Hanover. He could perhaps have blamed it on Windham's state of undress—and that certainly did not hurt—but he suspected it was the warmth of feeling he had displayed, which Ewen could not help but imagine him expressing in other circumstances, as well. 

Ewen carefully manoeuvred into the narrow cot, with its wooden frame and canvas bottom and sides, that hung from the deckhead and swayed precariously as he climbed into it. He rubbed at his knee, which he had banged into the bulkhead when they fell. Keith seemed to recall that he was wearing nothing but a shirt, for he quickly climbed into his cot as well, and got beneath the blanket. Ewen did so as well, but remained sitting, with his legs crossed. 

'Let us not end the night with a quarrel,' he said, and then added spontaneously, 'You know why I joined the army—will you not tell me why you joined it?' 

Windham looked surprised, but seemed willing enough to reply. He sat up, and as he considered his reply, his brows drew together in his habitual frown, but it was not aimed at Ewen. 

'I hardly know when it was decided—my father was a colonel under Marlborough, and I always expected to follow him into the army, from my earliest years.' 

Ewen, who had not quite caught the implication of the verb tense, said, 'I suppose he is proud of you now.' 

Keith's mouth twisted. 'Perhaps he would have been, but he is dead. He fell in battle.' 

'Oh—I am so sorry!' exclaimed Ewen. 

'It is no matter—it was long ago, and I was only five.' Windham shrugged.

They were silent for a while, and Ewen considered that perhaps if he kept on, he would blunder into some other painful subject. But his curiosity was too powerful. 'If my questions are impertinent, you have only to say, and I'll cease asking them. I do have another one—why do you bear a Scots name? Have you perhaps Scottish kin?' 

'You have noticed my great appreciation for the Highlands, perhaps,' replied Windham sardonically, and Ewen laughed. 'But no, there’s not a soul of my blood north of Tweed. My father had a Scottish friend, killed at Malplaquet before I was born. He must have had a great affection for him, since he gave me his name.' 

'Oh,' said Ewen. It seemed to him a strange echo of the present moment, and he wondered whether Windham would ever call him friend. 

The ship's bell struck, four times, and Ewen, brought back to where they were, listened to the creaks and working of the ship round them. 

'Since we are asking personal questions, I suppose it is my turn,' said Keith. 'What became of your parents? For if they were still alive, I suppose they would be at Ardroy.' 

'Yes, if they could. My father died in exile, after the Nineteen. I never knew him—I was only a few months old when he died.' Ewen paused a moment, imagining that death in a foreign country, far from his beloved hills. 'My mother stayed, but she did not survive my birth long. But I had my foster-family, and my aunt—I was not wanting for love, as a child.' 

There was a spasm of something painful on Keith's face then, and Ewen looked away from it—there was a limit to what one could ask. 

He said, more lightly, 'Perhaps we have laid our quarrel to rest now, and may sleep?' 

'Surely,' answered Keith. 

As he turned and stretched his arm out to douse the lantern, the blanket bared one of his calves, and a little of his thigh. Ewen looked at his bare leg sidelong, and then firmly directed his eyes away—the man had not asked to be ogled, after all. A pity he was so modest. 

They wished each other a good night. In the darkness, the sounds of the ship seemed more distinct, and Ewen was quite awake, though it had been a long day. The conversation had only whetted his curiosity about Keith Windham: what was that look on his face, when Ewen had spoken of his childhood? Was his mother alive, and did he have any other family? Did his life in the army satisfy him? What did he truly think of Ewen himself? 

Ewen rarely felt attraction to any woman or man, but it was usually quite strong and long-lasting when he did. If he were a different man, he might have considered the double impossibility of the thing: a man, and an enemy officer at that, and attempted to blot this attraction from his mind. But he did not—with the security of a man who had grown up knowing that he was loved and respected, he simply desired more closeness, more knowledge, of the man whom he admired. And admire him he did, not only in the physical sense: Keith Windham was an honourable and generous man, though his frequent frowns might at first make one think otherwise. 

The _Calypso_ sailed on through the night and the wind sang in the rigging, carrying them ever closer to London. 

Ewen Cameron and Keith Windham were not the only ones headed towards the capital of Britain: in Leek, Neil and Lachlan MacMartin were wakened with the other Camerons in the night, and by moonlight they marched on the frozen road through high and open pastureland, reaching Ashbourne at daybreak and pushing on for Derby, followed by the newly formed Manchester regiment. In Stonefield, the Duke of Cumberland had drawn up his men for battle and waited in vain for an enemy that never came. He had to admit that he had been deceived and that the way south lay open to Prince Charles, whom he must now pursue, though his men, some of whom had gone twenty-four hours without food, could not go on without rest after their forced marches and nights in the bitter cold. General Wade's force, east of the Pennines, was so much farther behind that it was not even in the running. 

And London, that great city, lay sleeping, with dreams of dread or anticipation, according to the fears or hopes of its inhabitants. 

Keith, whose dreams had been disturbed at each chiming of the ship's bell, came fully awake at eight bells in the morning and the clamour of the watch being changed. Blearily, he stared up at the planks of the deckhead above him, and pondered the perversity of Fate, which seemed determined to shut him up in smaller and smaller spaces with Ewen. He recalled vividly the brief full-body contact between them when they had lost their balance, Keith having been pinned between a heavy, half-dressed Ewen and the bulkhead. 

He turned his head to look sideways at the man whom he by now almost thought of as his companion, though he knew that Ewen Cameron was, inescapably, his prisoner. Keith could easily have reached out and touched him. Ewen was sleeping still, lying on his side turned towards Keith, his long hair in all its auburn glory lying in tousled locks round him, and his sun-tanned face was peaceful. He was so tall that one of his bare feet, sticking out from under the blanket, extended a little way beyond the foot end of the canvas cot, despite the upturned edges that were meant to keep the sleeper inside. The other leg was pulled up so that his bare knee stuck out another way, and one of his hands hung over the side. As a bed-companion, he looked as though he would splay out and take up all the available space that he could. 

Keith flushed and turned away. He rose carefully and quietly so as not to rouse Ewen, dressed and went on deck. The wind had held strong, though it now drove a fine, stinging rain before it. Squinting, he could see a shadow of land to the west. 

'That's Whitby, I believe,' said the officer of the watch, coming up to him and nodding towards the land. 'We should be able to let you off at Sheerness some time tomorrow afternoon, or possibly evening, if the wind holds. A good run.' 

Ardroy emerged on deck, noted the cold wind and rain, and with a few quick, habitual motions he rewrapped his plaid, so that he had a hood and a warm jacket, wherein he withdrew his arms. 

'Good morning,' he said pleasantly to them both. 

'Good morning,' replied Windham. The officer of the watch nodded stiffly to Ardroy and withdrew. 

His estimate of their progress had been correct, and late in the afternoon the following day, the ship touched briefly at Sheerness to let them disembark, and then immediately stood out again. They found a river vessel to take them up the Thames. 

'I've never been to London,' said Ardroy quietly, as they looked out over the broad expanse of the river mouth, its surface leaden with the freezing rain that fell on it, and narrowing as they approached the city. 

'I'm sorry your first visit should be under such circumstances,' replied Keith. 

'We have neither of us any news yet, and depending on...the fortunes of war, it is possible that I will want to withdraw my parole soon.' 

He meant, Keith supposed, if the Jacobite army were anywhere close to London, which he hoped they were not. 'Yes, I quite understand that. Do you choose to withdraw it now?' 

Ardroy hesitated. 'No—I would not want to give you that trouble. I promise to give you a day's warning, so that you have the time to make appropriate arrangements.' 

'That's considerate of you.' 

They passed docks with anchored hulks, and fields beyond them, and then as they came into the city there were buildings, crammed one by the other close together down to the water's edge, a vast sprawling organism through which ran the artery of the Thames. Keith wondered whether Ardroy had ever been to such a city before, then recalled that he had been educated in Paris. 

They landed as near to army headquarters as they could, for Keith's first duty was to report to the commander of the Royal Scots, Lieutenant-General St Clair. Still down at the river bank, a group of passing Irish labourers saw Ardroy's tartan and his blue bonnet with its white cockade, and whistled and cheered. A while later, two men approaching along the street spat in Ardroy's direction and crossed the street to avoid them. Keith wondered if they would have done the same if they had seen his scarlet uniform, and accordingly opened his cloak to the rain to let it show. 

Ardroy, meanwhile, responded to both of these the same way: with a proud lift of his chin, as if to say that he would take on all London if he had to. The vanguard of the Jacobite army entering the city, thought Keith, amused. Though his lack of broadsword rather spoiled the effect. 

As they entered the Horse Guards building side by side, the glances turned their way exhibited at first more of complete bafflement than hostility. To be sure, the Black Watch wore tartan too, but Ardroy's red and green was emphatically not the dark Government tartan. 

Keith, having found his way to St Clair's office, turned to the two guards stationed outside it. 'This man is my prisoner, though he is on parole. May he wait for me here? And do you know whether Lieutenant-General St Clair is busy?' 

'Yes, sir,' replied one of them, and indicated that he might enter. 

Captain Windham knocked, and at St Clair's reply, entered. 'Reporting for duty, sir,' he said, and saluted. 

St Clair looked up from his desk, which was covered with papers. 'Captain Windham! I'm glad to see you. I hope your wound from Fontenoy is healed?' 

'Thank you, sir, it is. I am glad to rejoin my regiment.' 

'I hear you were captured with those recruits headed to Fort William,' and Windham flushed with the shame of it, but St Clair waved this away. 'But you escaped, I heard.'

He leaned forward, all business now. 'Listen, Windham. I don't know what news you have had—' 

'None, sir—I am come directly from Edinburgh.' 

'—but the situation is serious. The enemy have crossed the Mersey—the bridges were not demolished in time. They are damnably difficult to get good reports of, because they often divide and march by different roads to confuse their direction, and spies often mistake the part for the whole. We just received a report that they have slipped past Cumberland, so we must prepare for the worst.' 

'Yes, sir.' Keith took a packet of notes from his pocket. 'I witnessed the battle of the Corryarrick, as a parole prisoner. Here is my account of it, together with some notes on the enemy's tactics and organisation, though no doubt those may have changed since then.' 

St Clair took them. 'Thank you, that will be helpful. Now, see to your company—your lieutenant is not as experienced as I would like, and I am glad to have you back.' 

'Thank you, sir, I will.' It was clearly a dismissal, and St Clair was a busy man. Keith hesitated, and then continued, 'One more thing, sir.' 

St Clair looked up from his papers again. 'Yes?' 

'I have a parole prisoner with me, an enemy officer whom I captured in Edinburgh.' 

'Oh? Do you think him useful in some way?' 

Keith took a deep breath. 'No, sir, but I was concerned for his safety there. I don't know if you have heard, but General Handasyde forced our own captured officers to break their parole and leave Perth!' 

St Clair's expression was guarded, and Keith surmised that he no doubt had an opinion on the matter, but did not want to discuss another general in front of one of his subordinates. 

'I cannot be bothered with your prisoner, Windham—he is your responsibility. Just make sure he does not escape or interfere with your duties.' 

'Yes, sir.' And Keith left St Clair's office. 

Ardroy was waiting outside, and as Keith nodded to him, he fell in beside Keith as they walked down the corridor. It was too late to find his lieutenant tonight, and they must find quarters for the night. Which he would evidently share with Ardroy again. 

'Windham!' It was Havelock, a senior captain in the Royals. 

A glance at Ardroy, who politely gave them some distance. 'Havelock—it's good to see you.' 

Without any preliminaries, Havelock whispered, 'Who is _that?_ ' 

A little annoyed, Keith said, 'May I introduce Captain Cameron? He is my parole prisoner. Ardroy, this is Captain Havelock of the Royals.' 

'Pleased to meet you,' said Ardroy politely. 

Captain Havelock did not look pleased at the introduction. Impatiently, he took hold of Keith's arm and dragged him some way down the corridor. 'Windham, what are you thinking, to come to London in company with a Jacobite flaunting his tartan and white cockade? The mood of the city is ugly—I don't doubt he could get his head bashed in, and yours with it, if you aren't careful!' 

Keith's temper flared up. He shook his arm free of Havelock's hand, and retorted, 'What is going on here? Has the whole army forgotten how to treat enemy officers on parole?' 

'There are those who would say rebels don't deserve to be on parole,' said Havelock warningly. 'I don't know if you have heard, but there will not be any cartel.' 

Keith's heart sank. 'I thank you for the news. Well, no doubt I'll see you tomorrow.' 

'Yes, no doubt.' Havelock nodded at him, and continued on his way. 

'I suppose you heard that,' said Keith in a tight voice. 

'I could hardly help doing so,' replied Ardroy. 

'I'm responsible for your safety,' said Keith abruptly, taking his cloak off. 'I hate to ask it of you, but would you put this on?' 

Ardroy hesitated, and seeing the stubborn set of his handsome face, Keith feared he would refuse. But finally he nodded. 'Since you ask it of me, I will.' 

And with the plaid and kilt hidden by Keith's grey cloak, they went to find supper, and then quarters for the night. 

Once again sharing a room, Keith said unhappily as they undressed for bed, 'I truly did not think I would be exposing you to danger, but—I must ask you to stay in the room tomorrow.' 

Ardroy looked similarly troubled. 'I will, then. But, Windham—' 

'Yes?' 

'Given what I have seen of some of your fellow officers—though I am sure there are many others who are honourable—I am aware of my great good luck, that you were my captor and not some other man.' 

Keith met his gaze, and held it. 'I thought you ascribed it to prophecy, not luck.' 

'I cannot say. Perhaps.' Ewen's blue eyes were serious. 

'Well. I'll do my best.' And getting beneath the blankets, Keith added, 'The Jacobite army has crossed the Mersey.' 

He was not sure what made him say it, for he certainly did not owe Ewen that information, and perhaps should not have given it to him. But he did not think it could do any harm.

Ewen had caught his breath. Quietly, he said, 'I thank you for telling me.' 

Keith only grunted in reply, and turned to the wall.

* * *

Keith Windham rose early the following morning and went to the officers' mess to break his fast, leaving Ardroy in his room. There he sought and found his lieutenant, John Calvert, who had been acting captain during his absence. 

Windham listened to Calvert's report, asking him to elaborate when needed. He was only twenty-three, and though he had satisfied the regiment's adjutant that he could put a company through its evolutions, he still had much to learn of that large portion of a captain's duties which did not consist of drill. But Keith thought he might make an adequate officer in time, at least if he curbed his unfortunate tendency to drink to excess with his fellow subalterns, and Keith considered it part of his own duty to ensure that outcome. 

After the meal, Keith excused himself and sent Calvert on ahead to the barracks, while he filled a plate with food and brought it to Ardroy in his room. 

At the barracks, he was hailed by a burly man in his fifties with a very slight limp. 'Glad to have you back, sir.' 

Captain Windham smiled at him. 'Glad to be back, sergeant. I'll be with you in a minute.' 

Keith detailed Calvert to drill with the new recruits that had brought the regiment back up to strength since they had returned from Flanders, and rejoined his sergeant. 

'D'ye want my report now, sir?' 

'Thank you, sergeant, I do.' 

And this would be the true report, by which he might judge Calvert's. The company's senior sergeant Thomas Lamb possessed that talent, so valuable in a non-commissioned officer, of deferring to an inexperienced superior who had perhaps recently purchased his commission, while unobtrusively teaching him what he needed to know. Keith had, in his own younger days, been the beneficiary of this talent himself, and valued the man accordingly now. 

'...and some of the men have still not got any proper boots, their old ones being quite worn out.' Lamb gave a quick glance towards Calvert, and added, 'Perhaps you might—?'

Keith gathered that Calvert was too junior to be able to apply proper pressure to the regiment's quartermaster. 'Yes, of course.' 

'Well, I suppose that's it. Have you any news, sir?' 

'None definite, but we must be prepared for battle within a few days.' 

Lamb nodded, but his bushy grey eyebrows drew together in a frown. He lowered his voice. 'I have to tell you, sir, that some of the men seem downright uneasy about fighting other Scotsmen. Not all of them, mind you, but some.' 

Keith pondered this. He knew well that the Black Watch was not trusted against their fellow Highlanders, which was why they had been posted here in London, far from Scotland. Though of course, now the Jacobites had come to them...but the Black Watch was not his problem to deal with. 

But his own men—? 'Well, we must make the best of it, and put the most trustworthy in the first ranks.' 

'Yes, sir. I know them well.' 

'I know that you do.' Keith gave him a brief smile. 

Perhaps encouraged by this, Lamb hesitated, then said, ''Tis perhaps not my place to say, sir—' 

'Go on.' Keith knew the value of having his ear to the ground. 

'—but the men are also uneasy about General Hawley's...discipline.' 

Keith nodded grimly. 'Have there been many executions?' 

'Of deserters, yes, and of men claimed to be spies. I saw one of 'em shot, protesting his innocence 'til the bullets hit him. And floggings for the most trivial offences. ' 

Keith frowned. 'I am sorry to hear it. But I hope you'll let the men know that St Clair would not allow any of his regiment to be disciplined by Hawley, no matter that he is senior.' 

Lamb nodded. 'Yes, sir.' 

'On that subject, how did Calvert deal with discipline? Any offences I should know about?' 

Having thoroughly reported to Captain Windham, Lamb watched him stride off to make a round of the men, which he always conscientiously did. Privately, he wondered what had happened to make his frowning captain smile more often. Perhaps he had been tumbling a lassie in Edinburgh? 'Twould do him good to loosen up a bit. 

Though Lamb could not know it, the source of Captain Windham's improved disposition was currently sitting on his bed in their room. As Keith opened the door, he caught a glimpse of Ewen's brows drawn together in thought: he was sucking on his pencil with Keith's copy of Bland open in his lap, looking like nothing so much as an overgrown schoolboy. 

Keith could not help the fond smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he was going soft, to let his prisoner read a military manual, but it was the only book he had with him, and it seemed cruel to leave him with nothing to read at all. 

Ardroy turned his head and smiled back. 'You have brought supper, I see, and I thank you for it. I am ravenous, though really I have done nothing to earn it.' 

'You've eaten nothing since breakfast.' Keith set the plate down on the bedside table, and Ardroy took it. 

Keith divested himself of cloak and swordbelt, and sat down on his own bed, allowing himself to slump against the wall. Catching up with his company had made for a long day, mentally if not physically, with his concern over his prisoner underlying his duties. 

Ardroy, having finished his meal, set aside the plate. 'I told you that I would give you notice before withdrawing my parole: well, I will do so now.' 

Keith sat up straight. 'Tomorrow evening, then? Shall we say at nine o'clock?' 

'If that suits you, yes.' Serious blue eyes met his. 

'I shall make arrangements, then.' 

Over the weeks, Keith had often chafed at the frustration of their enforced intimacy, but now that he was to be deprived of it, he felt a pang of loss. He had thought that if he could not have Ewen in the way in that he wanted him—which he emphatically could not—then it was better to have nothing of him at all. But somehow he had grown used to the companionship of it, to having Ewen smile at him at the end of the day, and all the little details about him: the way that he sometimes mumbled in his sleep, the unconscious little frown of concentration on his face as he plaited his hair, the way he asked Keith questions about things that—

'May I ask you something, before we are parted?' said Ewen, in a perfect illustration of Keith's thoughts. 

'Yes?' said Keith cautiously. 

'When you were my captive, in the Highlands, I felt that your—your attitude towards me changed, some time after the battle. Now that we know each other a little better, I wonder if you would tell me—was it because of something that I did?' 

Keith flushed, looking away. He had just been thinking, about Ewen and his questions, that he was not used to anyone showing quite that sort of interest in him. But this question—no. 

'I will not deny my behaviour, and I apologise for it. It was churlish of me to act so. But please believe that it was not because of anything you did—I wont say more than that.' 

Ardroy studied him in the candlelight, looking puzzled. 'I will not press you, then. And you must be tired, after a long day—I am sorry if my question was impertinent.' 

'It is no matter.' Keith turned away from him, suddenly feeling perilously close to an action which he must prevent at any cost: Ewen was only two steps away, and it would be so easy, to close those two steps, to—

It would be madness. Granted that Ewen seemed, for whatever reason, to like him on some level, it did not follow that he would want to bed him. And beyond that, there were still the reasons against it which implacably had been there since the beginning: he was a fellow officer, he was an enemy, he was Keith's prisoner. 

Well, in the beginning, Keith had been his prisoner, but that hardly changed much in this regard. 

'We should go to bed,' said Keith abruptly, and began to suit his actions to his words. 

The next morning when Keith came to the mess, he hesitated, cursing himself for sentimentality, then took two plates back to his room. Ardroy would be in prison tonight, and this would almost be Keith's last chance to share a meal with him. 

'You must be busy, coming back to your company at a time like this,' remarked Ardroy as they ate. 

'Yes, indeed—my lieutenant is not very experienced. But I have got a brief leave this afternoon, to visit my family.' 

'Oh—you said your father was gone?' 

'My mother remarried after his death,' said Keith dryly. 'Mentioning the name of the Earl of Stowe does make it easier to obtain leave to visit.' 

Ardroy raised his eyebrows at this information. 'And do you have any siblings?' 

'Only a half-brother, who is the Earl's heir. He is much younger than I.' The mention of Francis changed his expression, so that Ardroy could not help but surmise that he was fond of his brother, at least. 

'Well, I must go. With that extra bread, I hope you shall not be so hungry before I bring you supper. I'll see you tonight,' said Keith, and they took their leave. 

Captain Windham had a long list of tasks for the day, and began with a visit to the quartermaster to secure boots for his men. Next, he arranged to secure a prison cell where he might take Ardroy in the evening. 

He had not quite done all he had set out to do when he pulled out his watch and saw that it was past time for his leave, and so he hurried out to the street and took a hackney-coach to Stowe House. The city was in an uproar indeed, and Keith surmised that the news that the Jacobites would soon be threatening London was now common knowledge. Indeed, the day would be known to posterity as the Black Friday, for there was a run on the Bank of England and the financial markets crashed. 

But as he was let into Stowe House, the quiet of the spacious, pillared entry hall seemed a world set apart from the raucous noise of the streets. 

'Take me to his Lordship, if you please,' said Keith to the resplendent servant at the door. 

'Yes, sir,' he said, recognising his master's step-son. 

Lord Stowe was in his study, but stood and came to meet him. 'Keith, I am glad to see you.' 

'My Lord,' said Keith, to show his respect, though Lord Stowe did not in general require him to be so formal. 

'What a terrible business this is—who would have thought it, only two months ago?' exclaimed Lord Stowe, seeming alarmed indeed, but not in a panic. 'Have you any news?' 

'I am only a captain, sir, and not in the Generals' councils. You no doubt know already that the rebels march towards London. But they cannot take the city without a fight, and be assured that we will fight them!' 

'There are terrible stories in the news sheets, of the rebels' atrocities,' said the Earl, indicating the papers on his desk. 'Many people consider whether they should flee the city—I have not decided.' 

Keith glanced over the first news article, and could not help letting out a bark of laughter. 'Forgive me, sir, but I can assure you that the Highlanders most certainly do not eat babies!' 

'No—that's bound to be hyperbole, of course, but still…' The Earl frowned. 

'I spent more than two weeks as the prisoner of a Highlander in August, sir,' said Keith firmly, 'and I can tell you that the conduct of the rebels is no worse, and considerably better, than many other armies. As a parole prisoner I was treated very well, and at the battle of Corryarrick they took care to treat the wounded of both sides equally. I believe that they will keep as firm a hand on their men as they can—it would not benefit the Pretender if his men looted the homes of London's peers. I will not say that there is no danger of looting, or worse, should we be overtaken in the battle—God grant it will not come to pass!—but the danger is likely to come from their hangers-on, and the more unruly elements of the city itself.' 

'You relieve my mind,' said the Earl. 'Well, I'll think on it.' 

They spoke a while more, and the Earl at the end asked Keith whether he wished to see his lady mother. Keith declined, saying that he was expected back and had not the time—though in truth, he also had not the inclination. 

But as he was headed towards the door of the house, there were quick steps behind him. 'Keith!' called a voice that he knew well. 

'Francis,' said Keith, turning round. 'I am sorry I did not seek you out—I have only a short leave.' 

The young heir of the house was flushed with excitement, the colour on his cheeks only lending more vivacity to his good looks. 'Your letter told us you were captured in Scotland, and escaped!' 

'Yes—I am just come from Edinburgh, to rejoin my regiment. I would gladly tell you the story, but now is not the time.' 

'No, indeed! But tell me what I may do—I am wondering whether I ought to join the militia.' He looked ready to storm off and do so at once. 

'No!' said Keith sharply. An image came unbidden into his mind, of the dreadful wounds inflicted by the broadswords at the battle of Corryarrick, and the thought of Francis wounded so, or killed, took his breath away. 'You are not yet seventeen, and you are the heir!' 

'So Father says, but—' Keith's half-brother looked stubborn. 

'And he is right! Francis, this is a matter for trained troops. You could not help—promise me you will not try!' 

Opposed by both his father and his soldier brother, whom in fact he admired very much, Francis gave way. 'Very well—' 

'Thank you.' Keith pressed Francis' hand in both of his. 'I must go now, but I'll see you after the battle.' 

Francis straightened. 'Yes—God give you victory.' 

And Keith left Stowe House, taking a coach back through the unruly streets. He went to the mess to fetch an early supper for Ardroy and himself—their last meal together, before he would have to take him off to prison. 

But when he opened the door, the room was empty. 

Keith stared for a brief moment, then set the plates down hurriedly on the bedside table and rushed out. Was there no one—yes, there, by great good luck, was Captain Havelock. 

'Did you see where my prisoner has gone?' demanded Keith. 

'Yes, Hawley has taken him, I believe,' said Havelock. 

Keith felt it as a blow to the chest, robbing him of breath. 'How—' 

'His presence is not exactly a secret, you know, since you paraded him through headquarters.' 

'How long ago? And where did he take him?' 

'Not so long. And how should I know? But he has been shooting spies by the eastern parade-ground. By the way, Windham—' 

But Keith was already gone, for nothing in that moment mattered more to him than that Ewen Cameron should not be shot. 

And what if they were not by the eastern parade-ground? But he could not think of that now—he could only run, harder than he ever had in his life before. 

His breath coming harsh and the muscles of his legs burning, Keith came round the corner of a barracks and saw, some way off, an officer and four men with muskets, not yet aimed, and a man standing straight against the barrack wall. 

_'No!'_ shouted Keith, and ran. He caught a glimpse of Ewen's tall figure and defiantly raised chin, before he had put him protectively behind him. 

Facing into the muzzles of the now raised muskets, Keith got out, his chest heaving, 'You will shoot this man _over my dead body!'_

'What is the meaning of this?' Lieutenant-General Hawley strode forward impatiently. 'This man is a rebel, by his own admission!' 

'He is an officer, sir, and has given me his parole!' retorted Keith hotly. 'You will _not_ shoot him!' 

'Shoot the scum now, or put him on the scaffold for treason later—what difference does it make?' 

Keith was speechless for a second—this man held the King's commission, and as a general? He said tersely, 'I hold to the accepted rules of war, and to the rule of law in society, sir. If you shoot this man without a trial, _it is murder.'_

He bit off the last three words separately and clearly, though he could not help but know that the principles he was citing—which in fact he held to—were not, in his inmost heart, what he was risking his life for. 

Hawley narrowed his eyes at him. 'You forget, Captain, with what kind of men we are dealing—bloody and unnatural rebels, who have to be exterminated like vermin. You're mighty soft-hearted about it—perhaps you're a Jacobite yourself? Now stand aside!' 

'I am not! And I will not,' said Keith furiously. 

But a messenger was trying to gain Hawley's attention, and he impatiently cast his eye over the missive. With a warning glance, the general said, 'I must away—but I will not forget this, Captain.' 

Recklessly, for his blood was still running hot, Keith retorted, 'Neither will I, sir!' 

And Hawley, with long strides, left the scene. Now the ranking officer, Keith dismissed the four soldiers and turned to Ewen, who had been silent during the exchange. 

Ewen had looked his impending death in the face and accepted the reality of it, though with defiance and not resignation, for he did not wish to die. But he thought, at least, that he could go to God without regrets. 

And then, Fate had intervened. No, not Fate: Keith Windham had intervened. Ewen had known that he had a temper, but the passion with which Windham had thrown himself between Ewen and the muskets of Hawley's execution squad...it had stunned Ewen. 

Now, so quickly, the soldiers were gone and they were alone. 

'You saved my life,' said Ewen, his voice low but intense. 

'Come,' said Keith, gripping his arm unnecessarily hard, 'let us talk in my room.' 

And they went there in silence. 

Ewen saw two plates on the bedside table, and Windham glanced at them. 

'Yes, I came here and you were gone, and I—you almost died! I cannot protect you!' The distress on his face was plain to see. 

'Windham, you did protect me—you _saved my life!_ ' Ewen gripped his shoulders, feeling the tension in them, and gazed into his eyes with an intensity matched by the other man. 

Windham shook his head in denial. 'But for how long—oh, I couldn't bear it!' 

Ewen felt the exhilaration of being still alive run through his blood like wine. He said slowly, 'Windham, may I ask you something?' 

Keith let out a breath. 'Oh, you and your questions—yes, you may.' 

Did he ask him so many questions? No matter now. Ewen, finding no words for what he wanted to ask, leaned forward with a pounding heart, and brushed his lips softly against Keith's. 

The other man startled, taking a step back, and Ewen's hands dropped from his shoulders. Ewen thought he almost looked terrified. 

'I beg your pardon,' said Ewen, 'no, of course you're not—not interested in—' 

Windham gave an incredulous half laugh, as if he could not help it, and muttered, 'Not interested!' 

'What?' said Ewen. Keith flushed and looked away, and Ewen took a step forward. 'Shall I kiss you again?' 

A silence. And then Keith Windham, at last looking him in the eye, said in a low and husky voice, 'Yes.' 

He was tense still as Ewen leaned down and sought his mouth again, and their quick breaths mingled as Keith lifted his head up to meet him. The kiss was new and awkward at first, almost at cross-purposes. Let me in, thought Ewen, and he slid his hand behind Keith's neck, tilting his own head to the side. And with a hungry little sound, Keith did let him in, and their tongues met. 

Ewen wanted to kiss him deeply now, but there was too much in the way—he broke off impatiently to take off Keith's three-cornered hat and then his wig, then took his head in both hands and pulled him back in for a deeper kiss. His short hair, when Ewen raked his hands through it, was damp with sweat. 

Yes, thought Ewen, yes, as Keith's strong hands began to explore his body, trying with impatience to get between the folds of his plaid. Then he took a step back, and before Ewen could protest, said, 'Wait,' and took off his swordbelt, which had rather been in the way, and turned the key in the lock. 

Ewen, dazed with wanting, had forgotten about that, and now he only wanted to get his hands and mouth back on Keith, but—'Get your plaid off,' said Windham, tugging on it, and Ewen impatiently wrenched it off. 

Now, finally, they came together again, and Ewen backed up against the wall, pulling Windham hard against him. They were kissing deeply again, and Ewen could not get enough of it: arousal hummed in his blood, and oh, that damned uniform of his—how to get it off? 

And then Keith was pushing him away—no, he was going down on his knees, sliding a hand up Ewen's thigh. 

'Will you let me?' he asked, and Ewen looked at him stupidly. He nodded—whatever he wanted—and then Keith was lifting his kilt up, taking Ewen in his mouth as if he were hungry for it. 

Ewen made a small strangled noise of surprise and held very still. In a daze of pleasure, he thought, so much for his modesty, for it was clear that this was not the first time Windham had been on his knees before a man. His mouth—his hand—oh, his _tongue_ —Ewen felt his legs trembling and braced himself against the wall. 

Keith removed his mouth only long enough to admonish him, 'Hush!' and Ewen attempted, with limited success, to stifle his moans. With shaking hands, he caressed Keith's hair, his neck, as his mouth continued to work with great skill and enthusiasm, and then quite suddenly, Ewen knew that he was near the edge—he would come off—

Incoherently he tried to convey this, tugging on Keith's hair, but Keith only hummed in encouragement, and then Ewen was gasping for breath as he came into Keith's mouth, like being slammed into a wall of pleasure. 

Inescapably, Ewen's legs gave out and he slid down the wall, looking in stupefaction at Keith as he swallowed and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That was another smile Ewen had never seen on the man's face, a little smug and satisfied with the result of his work. Ewen liked it. 

Keith rose and had a drink of water from the glass on the table, and Ewen attempted to rouse himself. 'Come. Let me take care of you.' 

Keith came to kneel down on his level, and took Ewen's hand, bringing it with some urgency to where Ewen could feel how hard he was. 

'Please,' he breathed, and began to unbutton his breeches. 'Only give me your hand—'

Not so fast—Ewen wanted more from this than a quick finish. 

'Wait,' he said, coming up on his knees himself and pulling Windham close. Ewen kissed him, feeling the difference between them: Ewen languid and sated already, Keith urgent, his breath coming quick. 

Ewen began to unbutton his uniform coat, for he wanted to get beneath the layers of him, see him naked, wanted to _know_ him. Keith, though impatient, helped him by shrugging it off, and then Ewen got to work on his waistcoat, until he had got him in his shirtsleeves. 

The shirt was almost drenched with sweat, and Ewen recalled how he must have run, not knowing whether he would be too late. Ewen leaned down to where the shirt gave him access to the juncture between Keith's throat and shoulder, and put his mouth there, to taste the sweat on his skin, savouring the salt of it. 

Keith drew in a breath, and with that for encouragement, Ewen explored further, setting his teeth very gently in the muscle of his shoulder. And then up his throat to his ear, gently biting his earlobe as well, with Keith's hands tightening on his arms as he did so. 

But he was still entirely too much covered up, so that Ewen could not get his hands and his mouth on every part of him, as he very much desired to do. So he tugged at the shirt until he could get it loose from Keith's breeches, and when it was off, Ewen could run his greedy hands over Keith's chest, his back, down into his breeches to his firm backside and grip it with both his widespread hands. Keith's skin was hot and damp with sweat, and Ewen could sense his legs trembling as he knelt there. 

'Come, said Ewen, 'I want you on the bed.' 

Keith made an impatient noise, but came, and Ewen bade him sit, then knelt down to untie his boots, and, at his further impatience, smiled up at him. 'You cannot put your boots on the bed.' 

And then Ewen had got him down on his back, himself kneeling beside the bed, and his breeches— Keith caught his breath as Ewen unbuttoned those and slid them down, finally exposing his desperately aroused state. 

Ewen looked at all that bare skin spread out before him like a feast. Keith was more slim than he was himself, with not the same breadth of shoulder, but compact and muscular in his build: a soldier's body, with the scars to prove it. Ewen stroked his hand down along his flank to his thigh, seeing him tremble with the touch. 

'Oh, you are lovely,' Ewen murmured, for he was.

But Keith gave an incredulous snort, then said with a groan, 'Oh, would you _please_ —' 

Ewen took hold of him, and at the touch, Keith's whole body jerked, and he seemed to forget his own injunction to Ewen to be quiet. Ewen moved his hand, sliding easily, for he was slick with arousal. 

And oh, he was so responsive to Ewen's slightest touch, his breath hitching, his hips straining up—how lovely to feel the heft of him in his hand, to give in return that pleasure which Ewen had himself received. 

'I want—' Keith said, and then Ewen found his head drawn down for a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. He tightened his hand, stroking him faster, and then Keith was gasping, clinging hard to his neck, and Ewen felt him pulsing in his hand, and kissed him through it while he moaned into Ewen's mouth, until it was over and he only lay there with his head thrown back, chest heaving. 

Ewen stroked his flank again, as one gentles a horse that has been ridden hard. 

'Beautiful,' he whispered. Keith this time seemed not to have the breath to protest. 

Ewen touched him again, soft and vulnerable now, and on an impulse leaned down to put his tongue on him and taste him. 

Keith gave a yelp of surprise. 'No more, I can't—' 

'Sorry,' Ewen murmured, though he was not, really. By this time he had recovered somewhat and wanted very much to strip off the rest of his own clothes, lie down on the bed and wrap himself in Keith's naked body. But it was perhaps not the time for this, so he attempted to clear his lustful thoughts. 

Keith sat up and began to clean up and dress in silence, and as his bare skin was hidden again, Ewen sensed the return of his reserve. 

Thinking to make it easier for him, Ewen said gently, 'I think it must be late—perhaps you should take me to prison?' 

Windham made a small sound and looked as though Ewen had slapped him in the face. 'I should not have bedded you—'

'We,' said Ewen. 

'What?' 

'We did this together, if I may remind you.' 

'Yes, but you are my prisoner—the responsibility is mine—' Windham looked miserable. 

Ewen stepped closer. He would very much have liked to kiss him again, but the tension in him seemed to forbid it. 'I, for one, do not regret it. But I am sorry if it makes things more difficult for you.' 

'In any case, you are right that we must leave,' said Keith grimly. 'But eat your supper first, there's no sense in it going to waste.' 

Ewen picked up his plate, realising that he was indeed quite hungry, though Windham, he saw when he glanced at him, seemed only to pick at his meal. 

The night was dark and rainy when they left, with Windham's cloak to cover Ewen's Highland clothing, but Ewen still took deep breaths of the outside air—he had been kept inside so much, and would soon be still more so. The air smelt of smoke, from London's household coal fires: not the fresh air he had longed for, but better than nothing. 

They took a coach to the prison. In the darkness of the evening, Ewen had no notion where they were going, but as he did not know the city, daylight might not have helped him much. Neither of them spoke, and Ewen felt that time was running out, that he might not ever have an answer to the questions that he wanted to ask—perhaps Windham was right, about Ewen and his questions!—but even had the quality of Windham's silence allowed him to ask them, the coachman might overhear. 

They were expected at the prison, and a warden led Ewen to his cell. It was a small enough space, but dry and with a window, much too small for escape. A blanket lay on a cot which took up much of the room. 

'I have ensured that you'll be well fed,' said Windham. Dispassionately, he added, 'And, in case I do not return from the battle, I will inform my superior, as well as another officer I trust, of your whereabouts, so that you are not forgotten. Though Hawley, I hope, will not learn of it.' 

'But you will survive the battle,' said Ewen, with great certitude. 

'Why, how could you possibly know that?' said Keith, thrown off balance. 

'Because we have three meetings yet to go.' 

Ewen looked at Keith Windham in the light of the lantern the warden carried. He was back in his uniform, but Ewen now knew something of what lay beneath it, and wondered whether it would be possible to somehow call forth that passion again. For now, the warden was there, waiting with impatience, and he could not embrace him in farewell as he wanted to, even had Windham allowed it. 

'Be that as it may, I must go,' said Windham abruptly, his face set. 'I wish you well, Ardroy; I hope you know that.' 

_'Beannachd leat,'_ replied Ewen. 'Blessings go with you; may a straight path be before you.' 

And Captain Windham left. The key squeaked as the warden turned it in the door and took the lantern with him, a prisoner not being worth squandering lamp oil on. He was left in darkness, with the square of window a lighter darkness before him. Ewen felt his way to the bed and lay down on it. 

He was aware that he had laid his blessing on someone who would be doing his utmost to ruin the cause that was the very reason Ewen was here. But he was not the only one with friends or family on the other side: the rift ran through towns, through families, and sometimes even between husband and wife. He wondered whether it could ever be mended. 

At heart, Ewen did not know if he truly believed in the second sight, and he was willing to own that the surety of his assertion to Windham that he would see him again might perhaps owe more to his own fervent wish that it should be so. When Windham had saved his life, Ewen knew as by a flash, that the attraction he had already felt for him was now fixed in his heart as an emotion much more solid and lasting. 

And what, then, were Windham's feelings towards him? He did not know. It was clear that he did care, for it could not have been duty alone that had impelled him to throw himself in front of those muskets. And it was very clear that he desired Ewen, but not so clear, Ewen thought, that he _wanted_ to desire him, or care for him. 

Alone now and thrown on his own resources, Ewen found himself almost steadied by his solitude. As he had not for some time, he closed his eyes, though it made no difference in the dark, and prayed. Though he had perhaps sinned, and could not even bring himself to regret it, he still found comfort in the familiar words. Everyone, after all, was full of sins and contradictions. 

Across the city, in another bed, Keith Windham was assuredly not praying. But in other respects, his thoughts touched on the same matters. 

He ought not to have bedded Ewen Cameron: he was Keith's prisoner, and in a position of dependence on him. It was unconscionable. But even had he not done so, Keith knew that his own impartiality was entirely compromised—his own actions and feelings, when he had defied Hawley to save Ewen's life, had shown to him how far he had strayed from his philosophy of detachment. Even now, when he imagined the consequences should he have been too late, his chest contracted in pain. 

How different the scene afterwards had been, compared to Keith's previous experiences. For one thing, he did not usually kiss men. But oh, the sweetness of Ewen's kisses! He could not help but relive them, at length. 

Keith had acted according to what he was used to, when he had gone down on his knees and taken Ewen in his mouth—and exceedingly satisfying it had been, too, even by the standards of his previous fantasies on the subject—but after that, Ewen did not quickly finish him off, as would have happened at an assignation in St James's Park. 

Instead, he had—well. Keith blushed, to think of the state to which he had been reduced, how he had lain practically naked on the bed, and desperately wanting. And Ewen's hands, his mouth, bringing him to such release…

A part of Keith rebelled against his cold philosophy, and could not bring itself to regret what had happened. To know such sweetness, even though it brought him pain in the end: could it not be worth it? 

Bring him pain it surely would. Despite Ewen's belief in his foster-father's prophecy, it was far from sure that they would ever see each other again. And even if they would: if Keith's own side were victorious in the coming battle, what then? Would he have to watch Ewen tried for treason, and hanged on the scaffold? 

Keith lay sleepless for hours, and woke without enough rest. But no matter: he had now to do his duty, and his personal feelings were of no moment. Grimly, he shoved his hopelessly tangled emotions as deep into his mind as he could. 

According to the plan of defence that had been drawn up, St Clair was bringing the Royal Scots to Finchley Common, eight miles north of the city, and Captain Windham did his part in that and in the other considerable preparations which were in train. Harrison's regiment had arrived that very day: a welcome reinforcement. Reports from scouts indicated that the rebels would arrive tomorrow, and, as had been anticipated, they were advancing down the Great North Road. Finchley Common was both a good camping ground and a central position, whence the army might counter any flanking thrusts the enemy made, whether to the east or west. 

On the following morning they were drawn up in order of battle, with the Royal Scots on the right in pride of place, as befitted their seniority. A cold wind blew and the sky hung low, threatening snow or rain. 

The men were stamping their feet against the cold. They seemed apprehensive, and no wonder—the propaganda concerning the Pretender's approaching army had a strangely double character: on the one hand, the Highlanders were portrayed as the fearsome perpetrators of atrocities, of plunder and rape and the cold-blooded killing of whatever ordinary folk were caught in the way of their army. On the other hand, the news sheets also wrote of them as a lousy, ragged and badly armed band, which would be easily defeated by the King's loyal troops—though the latter story was more difficult to sell once the defeat at the Corryarrick was widely known. 

Windham knew that both stories were false, and it was with the aim of giving his men a more accurate account of their enemy that he got out in front of his company's line. He surveyed them: some had served under Keith for years, like Richardson, a brawny man who was steady in the line, but under the influence of drink had incurred an unfortunate amount of discipline, or Cooper, a bright lad who despite being only five-and-twenty had recently been promoted after the death of one of the company's corporals at Fontenoy. He met their eyes steadily, and they met his. 

In the last line were a mix of recent recruits, some of whom looked almost too young to take the King's shilling, and more experienced soldiers whom Lamb had judged unreliable: Windham wondered whether they had kin in the approaching army, or simply held to Jacobite principles themselves. 

'The army you will face is not like the ones you have faced in Flanders. They will not fight like civilised men, firing from a steady line. Instead, they will rush you, firing their muskets but once, and then drawing their swords. They depend on your fear, that you will break and run. If you do, you will in all probability be cut down. You must not break. Stand your ground, fire at will while they charge, use your bayonets. You must trust your fellow soldier beside you. You must _hold the line_. If you do, we will prevail.' 

Keith regarded them once more: faces determined, stoic, or perhaps struggling not to show fear. 'I trust you,' he finished, then returned to his place. 

Windham was only a captain, but he had made his recommendations to St Clair, based on his observations at the battle of Corryarrick. But he did not know whether St Clair had made use of them, and he was in any case not the ranking general. Certainly there had been no time to train the troops in new tactics, and he himself could do no more than speak to his own men. 

Keith looked to the left, and as he did so a gleam of sun shot through the heavy, hurrying clouds, and fell bright upon the King's standard where it streamed in the wind, and where King George himself stood, ready to defend his kingdom. Then the gleam went out, and the wind brought the first hard drops of rain, and at any moment, Keith knew, he might hear the distant pipes of the enemy's advance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hanoverians are not treating the captured officers so dishonourably because they are randomly being villains: it is because they wanted to discredit the Jacobites as rebels who were not legitimate opponents in war, because only other states could be such opponents, and thus they did not consider the Jacobites as protected by the international code that kept war somewhat civilized. Conversely, the Jacobites were being so very honourable because they were laying claim to that same legitimacy and showing that they knew the proper way to act in a war. 
> 
> Like Broster did for Lord Loudoun (who in fact was one of the more humane commanders after Culloden, certainly more so than Albemarle, who considered that genocide would be a good solution), I have to apologize for slandering General Handasyde: he was not the one to order the scheme of forcibly 'rescuing' the paroled Hanoverian officers from Perth. That was General Hawley, but Hawley only arrived later, and I needed to speed things up so that the 'rescue' happened before Keith and Ewen left Edinburgh. 
> 
> On the subject of Hawley: I am not at all exaggerating how horrible he was. A contemporary source says: 'Nobody disputed Mr Hawley's genius for […] prosecuting with vigour any mortal to the gallows, although, at the same time, we wish that he had the lenity to make converts.' 
> 
> Beannachd leat = farewell.


	4. Part III: Twisted My Words and My Actions

Two days had passed in Ewen's dark cell. He had eaten nothing since the previous evening, and it was now dark again—he assumed that the guards had perhaps been called away to help defend the city, and the prisoners been forgotten. But he had water in a pitcher, for which he was grateful. 

Ewen paced back and forth in frustration: to be shut up so, and not know how the battle went! For that must certainly be what was happening. The window was too high up to see through, but the street outside had gone quiet, unlike the clamour of the previous day—perhaps the Londoners were taking shelter inside. 

Then he heard the clopping of many hooves on cobblestones, coming nearer on the street outside. Ewen pricked up his ears in curiosity—oh, to see out of the window! 

But as it turned out, he did not need to. 'Make way for Prince Charles!' came a cry as the riders passed, and Ewen's heart gave a great thump in his chest. 

'My prince!' shouted Ewen, in a voice fit for a battlefield, and the clopping hooves fell silent. ''Tis Ewen Cameron of Ardroy! I am a prisoner!' 

There were exclamations of surprise, and then the Prince's men were making their way into the prison, finding the few wardens left, and availing themselves of the keys to the cells. 

The key turned in the lock, and Ewen was free. 

His liberator was one of the Prince's Lifeguards, dressed up in a blue coat trimmed with red, with brass buttons, a gold-laced tricorn hat, and embroidered tartan sword belt, and the company that waited for him on the street outside was no less impressive. Prince Charles was at its head, even more resplendent and mounted on a white stallion. 

Ewen shouted for joy to see it, for surely it must mean that the battle was won. 

'Well met, Ardroy!' said the Prince, clearly in high spirits. 'Is there a spare horse for my wayward aide-de-camp? You must tell me later how you came here—we had thought you stuck in Edinburgh castle!' 

'Give you joy of the victory, Your Royal Highness!' replied Ewen. 'For such I must assume it to be.' 

'Indeed, yes.' 

A horse was found for him, and Ardroy fell in behind the Lifeguard, among the less showy gentlemen of Lord Pitsligo's Horse, for he did not want to ruin the spectacle of the Prince's entry into London with the plainness of his clothing. It seemed most of the Jacobite cavalry was accompanying him. 

The chilly north wind had abated, but thick flakes of snow were still floating down from the sky. The streets were mostly empty, but people were looking out of the windows of the houses as they passed down Princes Street. Some cheered, and some booed, but most were silent. The London mobs could riot with the best when they were so inclined, but clearly few of the Londoners wished to stick out their necks either for a Government which was, after all, rather unpopular, nor did they wish to do so for the untried Prince Charles. And the London Trained Bands, which were to keep order in case of a rising in the city, were not prepared to make a last-ditch defence against the vanguard of an army which had defeated the regular forces. 

But the contest, after all, was not decided yet, for Cumberland was only a few days behind, and though that was not general knowledge, everyone did know that the Government had more troops than those near London. 

Ewen, as he rode, got a few titbits of information out of the man riding beside him, but it was far from enough, and there was much he could not ask him. How were Lochiel and Archie? How had his tenants fared in the battle without him, and were Neil and Lachlan unhurt? And Keith—he had been on the losing side, but was he now a prisoner, or had he escaped? Was he wounded? For Ewen stubbornly refused to believe that he could be dead—surely they would meet again, Angus had seen it! 

They had ridden down the broad Hay Market and were now turning past Charing Cross, and down Whitehall. Ewen did not know what all these grand buildings were, but their architecture signalled that they were in the heart of power in London, and thus in Britain. He tried not to crane his head and stare, and reveal himself as the provincial that he was. 

Ewen saw two ceremonial guards stand as though frozen, and almost laughed. They must not know what to do, indeed! 

Here they did find a welcome: in front of the building which Ewen did not know was the Palace of Westminster, a group of what were clearly important men were standing. 

And so Ewen Cameron, separated from the Jacobite army for all the march through England, rejoined it in time to see one of the Aldermen of the City of London, with a tartan waistcoat stretching over his capacious stomach, proclaim James Francis Stuart the King of England, Scotland and Ireland, and Charles Edward Stuart his regent. For while the Duke of Newcastle worried over imagined threats from rebellious Catholic priests, he had underestimated Jacobites closer to home. Of the Members of Parliament, many had fled, and some, while sympathetic to the Stuarts, were yet too cautious to openly declare themselves, for the contest was not yet over. But a small group of them were there to welcome the Prince. 

They had by now attracted a crowd, among which were journalists who would ensure the event reached the news sheets. 

Ewen caught his breath at what came next, for the non-juring Reverend John Clayton, who had come with them from Manchester, came forward in the black cassock he had hastily donned, and presided over the ceremony wherein Prince Charles knelt down to receive communion and converted to the Anglican faith, a gesture which was clearly calculated to win over the hearts of the English, and to defang the accusations of Popish fanaticism. 

And indeed, excited murmurs rose from the gathered crowd. There followed a short speech from the Prince, wherein he announced that all former enemies of the House of Stuart would be forgiven and generously treated if they swore to him, and as soon as proved practicable, the King would hold elections to the English and the Scottish Parliaments—further murmurs at that, for there had not been a Scottish Parliament since the 1707 Union. 

The Prince concluded with words to the effect that he would endeavour to bring his subjects happiness, prosperity, and freedom, and many people in the crowd cheered, along with the Jacobite cavalry. But some stood, apprehensively silent, in the back. 

Ewen did not much attend to this. It had only been a few months, but it felt as if years had passed since he stood on the shore of Loch na h-Iolaire and threw his bonnet into the air for joy, at the news that Clan Cameron would rise. Now here they were: they had won London, and King James was all but on the throne. Oh, they must defeat Cumberland too, but who could think they would fail at that, when they had already achieved so much? And then it would all be over. 

Ewen Cameron was young, and assuredly not a politician, or he would have understood that this was only the beginning. 

He found himself immediately employed again in his old capacity as aide-de-camp, for he was sent, along with one of the gentlemen of Pitsligo's Horse, back to the main army with despatches, while the Prince and his advisors stayed behind to confer with their London allies, and begin to secure their grip on the important institutions of the city. 

'Having been a prisoner, I am weaponless,' he said to the gentleman who would ride with him. To be sure the streets seemed calm, but who knew? 

'Borrow one of my pistols for the ride,' said the other man. Ewen took it, and they were off, at a rather faster pace than the ceremonial entrance into the city. 

Ewen wrapped his plaid round him against the cold—now he could indeed be proud of his tartan, and not hide it away by skulking in Keith's room! As they rode, the buildings and streets eventually gave way to the fields that fed the city, their stubbled expanse barely covered in a thin layer of snow. The westering sun cast long shadows, for the sky was clearing up. 

Ewen, not knowing the way, followed the other man through an unknown village and beyond it, until they rode into a camp more full of activity than an ant's nest. Here they parted, and Ewen asked his way about until he could deliver his despatches, and, having done his duty, he followed his heart and sought out the Cameron plaids. 

He found Lochiel and Archie conferring over some papers, looking rather worn out, and Lochiel with a bandage on his left arm. 

'Donald! Archie!' Ewen cried, feeling as, though far from the Highlands, he had nevertheless come home. 

His cousins, exclaiming in surprise and joy, each enfolded him in a kinsman's embrace. 

'My dear Ewen, how came you here?' asked Lochiel. 'We thought you still a captive in Edinburgh Castle, and were very sorry to leave you there. But we had no choice.'

Ewen gave them a brief summary of his travels, ending with the proclamation of King James in London and the Prince's conversion. They nodded in satisfaction, having known of his intent beforehand. 

'But Donald, you are wounded? I hope it is not serious,' said Ewen, a worried frown on his face. 

''Tis only a scratch,' said Lochiel, 'and no, I am not just saying that—Archie will bear me out.' 

'I would not have described it as a scratch, but at least it is not serious,' said Archie, with a fond smile for his brother. 'You must still let me keep it clean.' 

'And my men, how have they fared?' continued Ewen. 'I hope they are with you still, and have not been too much discouraged at my absence.' 

'They were discouraged, naturally, but were convinced to continue, and did their duty in the battle,' said Lochiel. 'Archie, not having a tail of his own, took them under his wing. But I am sure they will be very happy to see you again, your foster-brothers especially.' 

'I'm relieved to hear that,' said Ewen. To be sure, it was not uncommon for clansmen to go home if their chieftain was killed in battle, but he was glad the Ardroy men had been convinced not to do so. And of course, he had only been captured, not killed. 'Now we have won the battle—what next?' 

Lochiel lowered his voice. 'Cumberland and his army are not far behind us: only perhaps three days, and the Elector, when he saw that the battle went against him, managed to escape, for we had much fewer horse than they, and could not give chase. We assume that he has gone to join his son. But, God willing, we shall have French aid in the next battle. We have had no word while on the march, and a sore uncertainty it was to us. But a messenger has reached us now, and they will be landing very soon across the Channel. God send they are not prevented by the Navy, and that they reach us in time.' 

Ewen gave a whoop of joy, but quickly controlled himself. 'That is good news indeed!' 

'Indeed, it is,' said Lochiel. 'And I wish I might spend all night by the fireside talking with you, my dear boy. But we cannot rest—there is much to do, and I must put you to work immediately, I'm afraid.' 

Ewen was contrite. 'Oh, please do put me to work! You have all fought a battle today, while I have only been kicking my heels in a prison cell. But may I have supper first? I have had nothing to eat all day—I think the guards were called away, to help defend the city.' 

'To be sure you may! Go to the cook fires, I am sure they will have something left. And then go find your foster-brothers, and take your men and guard the eastern perimeter of the camp, beginning at six o'clock. Torcastle will relieve you at midnight.' 

'Yes, Donald.' Ewen turned to leave, but something occurred to him. 'Wait—were there many of the Elector's officers taken prisoner?' 

'Not as many as at the Corryarrick, of course—a fair number of them escaped.' Lochiel's brow turned dark. 'But we dare not trust our captives to give their parole, after the ones quartered in Perth broke theirs. We learnt of it just now, from a contact in London. That they should be so lacking in honour! It is beyond all I believed of them.' He shook his head. 

'I saw something of it, in Edinburgh,' said Ewen. 'Not all of them lack honour—they were forced into it by their commanders, and there are many who still refuse to take up the sword again.' 

'You relieve my mind,' said Lochiel. 'But I regret to say that we still cannot trust them.' 

'You don't happen to know if Captain Windham was among them?' 

'Windham?' Lochiel frowned, trying to place the name. 

'I took him captive after the affair at High Bridge, if you remember. And—' Ewen felt awkward to speak of it, '—he was the one who captured me in Edinburgh.'

This was news to Lochiel, but not to Archie, who had met him during the negotiations for Ewen's release, though they had come to nothing. 

'I suppose you may enquire tomorrow,' said Archie. 'The officers are imprisoned in the church hall in Highgate.' 

And Ewen, who had delayed his duty long enough, accepted that he would get no news of Windham today, though he sorely longed for it. At the cook fires, he got bannock and even a little meat, and hungrily gnawing all traces of it from the bone, he went in search of his men.

The reunion with Neil and Lachlan was no less heartfelt. 'Mac 'ic Ailein, I knew you would come back to us!' said Lachlan, his dark eyes full of devotion. 

'That's more than I knew, myself!' said Ewen. 'But I confess I am very glad to be here. I was taken with my captor to London, and liberated from prison by the Prince's escort.' 

'I have kept your sword with me,' said Lachlan. 'Let me fetch it.' 

He did so, and Ewen was very glad to have its weight hanging by his side again. 'I thank you, foster-brother. Ah, to have a sword again—I have missed it!' 

'Your horse was borrowed as a spare for Kilmarnock's Horseguards,' said Neil, 'but I'll send for it.' 

'That is well,' said Ewen. 'But I have orders from Lochiel—we are to be sentries, and guard the eastern perimeter of the camp until midnight.' 

They all three of them went to roust out the Ardroy tenants, who, though weary from the day's battle, were much encouraged to see Ewen again. When he had got them stationed in groups at intervals, with men assigned to walk the rounds between, he took some time to hear the story of the march through England from Neil and Lachlan. 

They told him of the siege, and surrender, of Carlisle, of the long marches through strange country, where they could never tell if they should be welcomed with cheers and white cockades, as in Manchester, or met with sullen hostility. 

Neil told the story of a little boy in Macclesfield, only perhaps three years old, who had come up to him in curiosity and lifted his kilt. And Neil, smiling in amusement, had looked up to see his mother terrified for her child's life. She had dashed up to grab him and run away, and Neil had regretted ever since that, not having the English well enough, he could not explain to her that he had children of his own and would not have harmed her boy for anything. 

Ewen also heard the story of the battle from their perspective. 

'We began marching early this morning, almost in the middle of the night, for there was a moon,' Lachlan began. 'And got off the main road—I don't know what it was called—and at daybreak came on the Government Highland regiment, the Black Watch, guarding one of the roads to London. We had been warned not to treat them as enemies, for I think they had sent a messenger to us, that they would come over to our side. ' 

Neil took over. 'And so they did! Oh, I was so glad of it. And some clansmen began to search out those they knew on the other side, but the officers soon put a stop to that, for we must march quickly on, to surprise the redcoats as much as we could. And for the same reason, they would not let me play my pipes, either! Of course the redcoats must have had scouts out, for after marching on awhile they came to meet us, and both formed up, and we were ordered to charge as soon as possible, so they would not get the chance to work their guns.' 

And so Ewen heard the story, with more immediacy and less grasp of the larger situation than had Lochiel or Archie told it, but he valued knowing how his men had experienced it. 

'I thank you for telling me of the battle,' said Ewen. 'I must walk the rounds now, and speak to the men.' 

'That is well,' said Neil, 'they are quite tired now, and will appreciate some encouragement from you.' 

Ewen felt quite human again, with food in his belly and back among his own, and his time as a prisoner oddly distant. Was it only a few days since he had stood with his back against the wall, and almost been shot as a traitor? And saved by Keith Windham—oh, where was he now? 

The sun had set, and the earlier clouds having cleared up, the snow on the ground gave back the light from the moon that was rising in the east, so that one could see at least a certain distance. Round the camp was farmland, with small fields bordered by trees, leafless now in winter. 

The laird of Ardroy made his way to the next group of men, stamping their feet to keep warm in the cold night, and enquired how they fared. Some of his tenants had been killed or wounded, as was only to be expected when they were on the front line. Ewen felt a stab of sorrow when he heard of the death of John, the son of the tenants living closest to the house of Ardroy, who had often played with him and his foster-brothers when they were young. But he was sorry for all who had died, and sorrier still that he had not been there to lead them. Well, he would get another chance soon. 

Having reached the southernmost outpost, he turned and made his way back slowly, walking outwith the sentry lines, peering thoughtfully into the dark. 

And suddenly, he saw movement among the fringe of trees at the edge of the field. What was that—an animal, or a man? Ewen felt his senses grow sharp, as when he went hunting on the hills above Ardroy. Surely that was a man. 

As he stepped nearer, he saw that the man was wearing a plaid—a Cameron plaid, in fact—and relaxed a little. But still, he must do his duty as a sentry. 'Who goes there?' he asked in Gaelic. 

The man did not reply, but only quickened his steps, heading northwards, and Ewen repeated his question in English. At that, the figure stiffened as if taken by surprise, then went on again, but Ewen, with a few long strides, caught up to him, and he turned round. 

Even in the dim colourless light among the trees, and even in a plaid, Ewen recognised him—he thought he would have done so anywhere. They stared at each other for a long moment. 

'You're alive,' breathed Ewen. 'I thank God for it.' 

'And you are free,' replied Keith. 'I'm glad to see it—I never wanted to shut you up in that prison.' 

They fell silent again. There was too much to say, and the situation too fraught, for they were quite close to the sentry lines—someone might come upon them at any moment. 

'And are the tables to be turned a second time, then?' asked Keith finally. 'I doubt I could escape you, if you called for the sentries. In the darkness, I came too near the camp, and now I suppose I must pay for it.' He turned his head down, and Ewen could barely see the bitter twist of his smile, if such it could be called. 

'Faith, no,' said Ewen, without thinking. 'I could not bear it, that you should be my prisoner again. Go, Keith Windham, and may our next meeting be a happier one.' 

'Do you mean that?' said Keith quietly. 'I am an enemy officer—you truly mean to let me go?' 

'I do.' Ewen stretched out a hand, to clasp his shoulder. 'I cannot see you as an enemy any longer.' 

'Farewell, then.' 

Their eyes met for a long moment, before Keith turned, stepped away, and faded into the night. 

Ewen stood looking after him, trying to fix in his memory the lines of his face in the moonlight. And now, when he was gone, there was so much that he wanted to say to him: had he been wounded in the battle? Had he relived in his mind, as much as Ewen had during those long hours in prison, their brief union? Though it was almost worth it only to know that Windham was alive, yet this third meeting had been so short—only a few minutes, when their first two had been several weeks long! 

But it had been in Ewen's power to prolong it, if he had wished it, and yet he had not done so; no, and nor could he, not even though it were his military duty! He did not want to force Keith Windham into his company—he wanted him to choose it of his own free will. After the war was over, perhaps, they could meet as lovers, instead of on opposing sides. Those five meetings—Ewen was determined that there should be many more. 

And so Ewen Cameron, distracted as he was by all the ardent thoughts of a prospective lover, did not notice that what he had briefly feared, but then forgotten, had in fact occurred: their meeting had been observed. 

Keith Windham, having thus escaped imprisonment, continued northwards, trying in the dark to make his way towards the Great North Road and, it was to be hoped, Cumberland's army, though it must be a few day's march away still. He carried urgent news. Not of the lost battle, for there must be many who had escaped to carry word of that, but of something else, and even more momentous. 

By gad, he still smarted at the defeat earlier today! It was clear that it had been partly the result of treachery: the Black Watch had been very much under suspicion, but upon Lord Stair offering to be security for their behaviour, they had nevertheless been stationed at Enfield on the northeastern approach to London. But either Lord Stair had been very much mistaken, or he was a traitor himself, for the Jacobite army, their ranks strengthened by the Black Watch, had come by way of Enfield, and thus the main army on Finchley Common had less warning than they should have had. It must have been premeditated treachery, too, for otherwise, how had the Pretender known to come by that way? 

Well, the Black Watch were Highlanders, and many of them from the disaffected clans—it was not to be wondered at that they had deserted, though Keith did wonder that they had been trusted in that position. And there had been Highlanders in his own regiment, too. 

So Captain Windham, with the main army and the King's standard, had marched hurriedly east towards Edmonton, as soon as scouts had brought word of the enemy's approach. And so, at the encounter, the enemy had more men—Keith judged that they might have been about half again as many, but almost as important, the gunners of the Royal Artillery had not been able to provide the advantage they should have done. 

Keith still believed well-served artillery was the key to defeating the Highlanders, but their commanders had clearly recognised that threat as well. The battlefield was serviceable, as such, for it was mostly flat farmland in that area, but encountering the enemy as they did, there was not much time to position themselves, and the first attack had overrun the right flank and the artillery. 

This was rational analysis after the fact, for Keith himself had been on that right flank, and had not in the moment had thoughts to spare for anything but the onslaught of the enemy. They were Camerons, and his visceral reaction to that tartan he by now knew so well made him hesitate for a fraction of a second: but Ewen could not be among them, and they were beyond doubt his enemies. 

Captain Windham was on foot in the first line, to encourage his men, and while that, and his speech to them at Finchley Common, might have helped, the army as a whole had not the least experience of a Highland charge, and there had not been time to practise any tactics against it. Keith met them with cold steel of his own, furiously parrying and striking, and after an endless moment emerged on the other side of their lines. Strangely, his sword was unbloodied, and he unwounded. 

On the ground about him, their blood stark against the snow, lay the bodies of those Highlanders killed by the musket-shot of his own men, before they were hit by the charge. The overwhelming din of battle, forgotten in the furious struggle, assaulted his ears anew. Keith dashed the melting snow out of his face, driven there by the wind, and turned to survey the field. 

The battle had shifted away from him. With bitter shame, he saw that the line of the Royals had broken. In the gunpowder smoke and snowfall, he had not a full view of the battlefield, but could not see a way to reach his own side, except through the lines of the enemy, which would only get him killed to no purpose. But the King's standard still stood, thank God, and his heart lifted to see it. 

Keith turned to see that the Irish Brigade, the Jacobite reserve, was being brought up, and he must perforce scamper out of the way, into the blackthorn and hazel bushes at the edge of the field, though at the last moment he stopped to pull a plaid from one of the dead Camerons. It galled him, to hide in this a fashion as though he were a coward, but by gad, it was not that he refused to fight! 

He wrapped the plaid round himself, partly as concealment, partly for warmth, for the sweat of the battle was beginning to cool. As he made his way behind the fringe of trees to approach the battle from another direction, he tried to make out what was happening. It did not look good, but perhaps if he circled round to the south, he might yet rejoin his own side again in time to make some contribution. 

He had just begun to hazard this course, when he saw the cavalry arrive at last—that standard, half-glimpsed through the snow, must be that of Hawley's Royal Dragoons, which had been stationed at Barnet. 

They were not enough to turn the tide of battle. But they were enough to ensure that the King and his heir, whose standard had been in danger of becoming overrun, could make a safe retreat, which the Jacobites, who did not have much cavalry, had not the power to prevent. 

Windham watched with a heavy heart the conclusion of the battle, for the redcoats were now beginning to surrender. Attempting to rejoin his regiment could now serve no purpose, other than dying, or giving the Jacobites another captive officer, which he had no wish to do. 

And now? His duty must be to follow the King, and join Cumberland's army, which was coming in from the north, though it was days away still. But that he could not do until nightfall, and so, for now, he must find some means of concealment. He found it among the thick bushes round a stream, where the banks sloped steeply down and hid him from view. 

Keith's mood, as he waited for the sun to set, was rather black. He thought he had no reason to reproach himself, when it came to his personal conduct, but still, for his men to be captured when he was still free was rather a damning outcome. 

And London, now in the hands of the Jacobites. His worries were not that there would be indiscriminate looting, burning, and rape, but rather that the Jacobites would have time, during those three days, to secure their hold over the institutions of power in the capital. And if only Francis would keep his head down, and not go off on some brave and hare-brained scheme that would risk his life! 

Dusk fell. Keith was shivering, even with the plaid, for the clouds had lifted and the temperature was falling to the pitiless cold of a clear winter night, but he could not move until it was fully dark. He wondered whether Ewen Cameron had known the clansman who had worn this plaid, and he hoped that somehow he would be liberated from prison, for Keith would be unable to do it. 

But still, the thought of Ardroy could not help but warm his heart, if not his body—though he knew he should not feel it so strongly, the memory of how they had come together in his room, before he had perforce locked him up in prison, was lodged now so deep in his heart that he feared it was indelible. Despite all that he might try to do about it, he knew that he had fallen in love—for all the good it would do him. 

It was by now dark enough that Keith might emerge from his hiding-place, and he made his way cautiously out from the trees, and picked his way through the bodies littering the field, clad in plaids and red coats both, their blood dark in the moonlight. For a moment he felt tired at the waste of it, of the British blood spilt on both sides. There had been no time yet to bury them, and indeed, it would be a difficult task, since the ground was frozen hard. The weapons had been gathered up, and he trusted that the survivors were not badly treated. 

Though the battle was lost, the war was not—and he must do his part in it. Though it must be possible to head north along the small roads and tracks that the Jacobites had taken, Keith was unfamiliar with them and did not trust himself to do it in the dark—he must, then, head for the Great North Road. He suspected that the enemy had taken over the camp at Finchley Common; it seemed the logical thing to do, and in that case, Keith must take care not to come too close to it—but it was to the west of the road, so that should be easily done. 

So Keith made his way cautiously along the country lane, the moon throwing a faint shadow before him as he walked. Though the December evening was dark, it was not late, only perhaps six o'clock, and several times he had to hastily get off the road and hide from passers-by, who might potentially be enemies. But by their speech, he heard that they must be from the farms near by. 

The small lane abruptly turned and debouched onto a larger road, which must be the Great North Road. Keith heard the sound of hooves from the north, and ducked behind the dense hedge. The riders were two men, keeping their horses to a walking pace in the dark, and conversing in quite low tones that nevertheless carried in the quiet night. 

'Well, we don't know quite where they'll land. Shall I take Ashford?' 

'Yes, and I'll go north of the Downs. They bringing any horse?' 

'No, just foot, I think—' 

The voices faded away down the road. But Captain Windham, who had immediately grasped the implications of the conversation, stayed on his knees in the snow as if stunned. Reaching Cumberland's army had just become rather more urgent. He must get a horse somehow—if he could reach a post-house...but in any case he must get past the camp first.

He got to his feet and, keeping a distance to the road on its eastern side, followed it northwards. But he had not anticipated that the camp should have spilled over on the other side of the road, and thus was the next instance of Old Angus' prophecy fulfilled.

* * *

His mind full of his meeting with Ewen, Keith continued northwards, giving the camp a wide berth. He wondered whether, had Ewen known of the information Keith possessed about the French reinforcements, he would still have let Keith go. Surely his attachment to Keith could not have outweighed his duty, in that case. 

The proof of that attachment could not but warm Keith's heart, even as he thought that it rather showed that Ewen, for all his diligent study of Bland during his imprisonment, was very much not a military professional. Then again, had they both been of Keith's disposition, nothing would perhaps have happened between them. And nothing might happen in the future, he told himself sternly, for despite Ewen's talk of prophecy, he could not depend on them ever meeting again. 

A noise in the darkness, and a shifting shadow. Keith startled, brought abruptly out of his thoughts, and his heart thudded in alarm. A horse: and who was the rider? And why here, off the road? Then the shadow shifted further, and he saw in the moonlight that the horse was riderless. 

'There now, what are you doing here?' he said softly. 'Come on, let me come closer.' 

He approached the horse, which shied away nervously. 

'Was your rider unhorsed in the battle? And you must have bolted, poor thing…' But it was a stroke of luck for him, if it was not injured, and would let him near. 

With further soothing nonsense talk, Keith managed to get close enough to stroke its flank, which was slick with the sweat of its panicked run. It was shivering in the winter cold. 

'Good, that's good,' murmured Keith. 'You need a rub down, and a warm stable. Come on, I'll get you that, if you come with me.' 

A rub down, and a warm stable—he would be glad of that himself. Cautiously, he took the trailing reins, which had evidently been torn under the horse's hooves in its flight, and was relieved when it followed his lead. He could not make out its dark mass clearly, but it was at least walking, and not obviously injured, though it would be a wonder if it did not go lame somehow after bolting like that over uneven ground. 

Perhaps he could chance the road now—any passers-by would see him no better than he could see them, and time was of the essence. 

Having led the horse along the road for a while, Keith saw that it was favouring its left hind leg somewhat, but it did not seem bad. Better that than a fore leg, which bore most of the weight. 

'Will you let me mount, then? Come on, you'll be in the King's service, same as I am...' Unless it was a Jacobite horse, but he doubted it—their army did not have much cavalry, and in any case a horse was innocent of such loyalties. 

'That's right, then, that's good.' And he was in the saddle. Keith tied the broken reins together with a makeshift knot, and urged the horse to a quicker walk. He would make little speed riding in the dark on a horse that might be halfway lame, but still, he must put some distance between himself and the camp. 

After an hour of riding, Keith pulled up in front of what was, as far as he could make out in the moonlight, a prosperous farm house, where a light still shone in several of the windows. He would risk it—there was always the chance that they had Jacobite sympathies, but he could not spend the night outside with only that plaid for a blanket. 

The door was answered by a servant, and Captain Windham asked for his master or mistress. At the news of a redcoat on their doorstep (for he had left the plaid by the horse) the master and mistress both came down. 

Keith explained his business, and added, 'I am putting you somewhat at risk, but—'

The two exchanged a wary wordless glance, in the way of long-married couples, and then the middle-aged mistress of the house said firmly, 'Never mind that—you can stable your horse, and then you'll have a meal and a bed.' 

'I thank you, madam,' said Keith. 'I'll be off before daybreak, I promise, and I can pay for my board.' 

In the stable, he saw by lanternlight that the horse was a sturdy and undistinguished bay gelding. Keith waved off the stableboy, who gratefully slunk back to his bed, and set to rubbing down the horse himself. 

'I'll call you Steady,' he murmured, for he had to call him something. And though it might not be the most apposite name for a horse that had bolted, nevertheless he did seem quite steady now, and not as badly off as he might have been. 

After his meal, Keith was shown to a small guest room, where he was grateful to fall most promptly asleep, despite all the worries and cares that might have kept him awake. He dreamed somewhat confusedly, but rather pleasantly, that he was a horse and Ewen Cameron was rubbing him down with a plaid, but then the other man was leaning on him, warm and heavy and _purring_ , and Keith woke to find a small black cat curled up in the space beside his neck. 

As he surfaced from the dream, the weight of the world came back down on him: yesterday's crushing defeat, the overheard intelligence, his urgent mission. He closed his eyes for a brief moment again, then opened them with a sigh. It was still dark, thank God. Keith fumbled for his watch—yes, he must get up!—and dressed, rather envying the cat, which curled back up in the still-warm blankets and went to sleep again. 

Ewen Cameron, meanwhile, was also waking up. He had shared plaids with Neil and Lachlan for warmth, such as they had often done as young boys, when they were on expeditions in the hills, hunting for deer or grouse. Now he reluctantly got up and went to the cook fires for some hot oatmeal, and thence to Lochiel to report for duty. 

Lochiel had been conferring with a group of officers, among them Keppoch and Lord Lovat, but their meeting seemed at an end, and Ewen waited until they had begun to leave. But before he could ask Lochiel what his duties for the day were to be, another man interposed himself, expensively clad in a gold-laced coat with a white cockade. 

'Colonel Cameron,' he said to Lochiel, with an apologetic air and a slight Irish accent, 'I am sorry to intrude.' Ewen did not know him, but then, he had been apart from the army for some time, and had not met many of the reinforcements that had joined them. 

'Yes, Mr Bradstreet?' said Lochiel, somewhat impatiently. 

'I am sorry to have to come to you with this, but—' The man hesitated, then continued. 'Last night, I happened to observe something which ought to be brought to your attention. This man—Captain Cameron, I am told—I observed him among the sentry lines, coming upon a redcoat, whom he addressed as Keith Windham. He did not capture this man, but rather sent him on his way, with the words that he did not consider him an enemy. I found this very strange, and thought it best to report it to you, in case Captain Cameron should be a spy, or—well.' 

Turning to Ewen, he said, 'I am sorry, sir—I do not enjoy the role of informer, but I must do my duty as I see it.' 

And seemed indeed to be sorry, but Ewen cared not what this Mr Bradstreet felt: he only cursed himself for not being more vigilant. Of course they might have been seen—he had thought of it at first, but then had had eyes only for Keith, besotted as he was! 

Lochiel had listened to Bradstreet's story with an impassive air. 'Thank you, Mr Bradstreet, I'll handle it.' 

Bradstreet, clearly dismissed, bowed slightly, and Lochiel beckoned Ewen into one of the commanding officers' tents, which was empty for the nonce. 

'Explain yourself, Ewen,' Lochiel said in a stern tone, which Ewen felt all the more because he so seldom heard it from him. 'Is this story true?' 

Ewen swallowed. 'It is true,' he admitted, 'but let me tell you the circumstances that led to it.' 

Lochiel allowed this with a short nod. 

'You'll remember that Captain Windham was my captive, and that he escaped in Perth. As I told you yesterday, he was the one who captured me in Edinburgh, when I was guarding the Prince's escape. He treated me very well at Edinburgh Castle during my time there, and defended me, and indeed our side, against some of the other officers, who spoke badly of the conduct of the "rebels", as they call us. Windham then told them of our good treatment of him, and the other captive officers.

'When the scheme of compelling the officers in Perth to break their parole was brought forward, Windham criticised it quite severely. He became anxious about me, and how I might be treated, if the civilised rules of war were not to be followed, and contrived to bring me along to London when he was ordered there. But matters in London were hardly better. 

'Donald, he saved my life!' Ewen could not help showing the emotion he felt at the memory. 'I was to be executed as a traitor, without a trial, and he risked his own life for me, standing between me and those muskets.' 

'Indeed?' Lochiel raised his eyebrows. 'He did not seem to me to be a man to risk his life for an enemy's. But then, I do not know him.' 

'No, you do not, and I consider him a friend now, too, and not only an enemy,' said Ewen, and continued passionately, 'Tell me, Donald, how could I take a man captive who had risked his life to save mine?' 

That was not all that lay between them, but he could not tell Lochiel that. He wished suddenly that he could tell him how he felt, as he had done at the news of his betrothal to Alison—but that, of course, was impossible. 

'I see how you feel about it,' said Lochiel, 'but Ewen, consider that he would have been in no danger if you took him prisoner—we do not mistreat their officers, after all, though we no longer trust their parole. But tell me, since he seems sympathetic to our cause, and criticises his own side: do you think he might swear to the Prince?' 

'It would gladden my heart,' said Ewen, for he would very much like to fight by Windham's side. 'But I did not say that he was sympathetic to our cause, merely that he found our conduct in warfare honourable.' 

'Yet since his own side has not been so, and he owns it, that might count for much. Well, I hope he may come round. But Ewen,' continued Lochiel, his voice stern again, 'you must not let this friendship blind you to your duty. Do not let it happen again.' 

'No, Donald—I am sorry!' said Ewen, contrite, for the fear of losing Lochiel's regard was worse to him than any fear of discipline could be. And he asked to be assigned some arduous duty, anything that needed to be done. 

Meanwhile, Keith Windham was back on the road, having urged his hosts to take some money for his board, and in return also received from them an old grey cloak, more neutral than his red coat or the plaid, both of which would rather draw attention. 

He did not know the army's exact whereabouts, but he would follow the Great North Road for now, where there were coaching inns with remounts available, should he need it, and ask for news along the way. But Steady proved to be worthy of his name, for with the warm stable and rest, he seemed to have recovered well, and so long as Keith did not drive him too hard, might bear him all day. 

By stopping to ask in every village, Captain Windham followed the trail that Hawley's retreating dragoons had taken the previous day, and after some false trails and retracing of his steps, he encountered the vanguard of Cumberland's army at dusk, in Luton. He threw open his cloak to show his uniform, and when he had given his name and rank, they waved him on to where the army was just settling down for the night. 

The commanders had taken over the inn for the night, and Keith, seeing the batman of a fellow officer of the Royal Scots, asked him to stable Steady. 

Urgently requesting entry from the guards outside, he entered. A group of staff officers stood with their heads bent over a map spread on a table, but at Keith's entrance they straightened. 

'Yes?' Cumberland said, his bulk blocking out the light from one of the lanterns. 

'Your Royal Highness,' Keith said, saluting. 'Captain Keith Windham, reporting. Sir, I have news of French reinforcements to the rebels,' he said urgently, to justify his intrusion in the generals' council. 

'Give your report, Captain Windham,' a familiar voice ordered, and Keith was relieved to see that St Clair had escaped. 

Keith related how he had been separated from his regiment, escaped capture at the battlefield, and then overheard the brief exchange between the messengers. He did not, however, divulge that he had almost been captured near the enemy's camp, and that Ewen Cameron had let him go—it could not be relevant to his report. 

'Captain Windham,' said Cumberland, frowning at him. 'If your report is true, it is momentous news. But we have had no intelligence of this from other sources, and moreover, we received a report only a few hours ago from a spy within the rebels' camp, which concerned, among other things, you.' 

'What?' Keith exclaimed, then recalled to whom he was speaking. 'Your Royal Highness, what could a spy in the rebels' camp have to say about me?' 

'Is it, or is it not, true that you encountered an enemy officer near the rebels' camp, and that he did not capture you, but let you go?' 

Keith gaped, thrown off balance. 

Before he could say anything, Cumberland continued, 'And is it true that he said he didn't consider you to be his enemy?' 

Reluctantly, Keith said, 'It is true, as far as it goes, but I cannot consider it as relevant to my intelligence about the French. Captain Cameron of the rebel army had a personal obligation to me, and when he encountered me on the outskirts of camp, he elected not to take me prisoner on account of it.' 

Cumberland narrowed his eyes. 'And his words about not considering you to be his enemy?' 

Keith flushed. He hated to have his personal conversation with Ewen Cameron aired in front of his superiors like this—it felt like being stripped naked. 'You would have to ask him, though perhaps he meant that he considered himself to be under an obligation to me.' 

'I see. You have a friend among the rebels,' commented Cumberland. 'Our spy also confronted Captain Cameron about his actions, in front of his superiors, to provoke information from them.' 

Though he was already uneasy for his own sake, Keith suddenly feared for Ewen's sake, too, and hoped he would not be disciplined for his impulsive generosity. 

'Our spy heard Captain Cameron say that you had praised the rebels' conduct, and criticised that of your side, over the affair of the officers who were liberated from Perth,' said Cumberland. 

Keith felt as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been upended over his head. Ardroy had said that, in front of who knew how many people? Keith had told him those things in confidence! 

'Can you deny that you said that?' asked Cumberland. 

Still reeling from Ardroy's betrayal of his trust as he was, Keith unthinkingly clung to his honour, and told the truth. 'Your Royal Highness, I am loyal to King George and am proud to hold his commission. But it is true that I was well treated by the rebels, and I own that I think it was ill-done to compel our officers to break their parole.' 

Cumberland visibly swelled. 'You insolent dog! You praise those officers in Edinburgh, who have rendered themselves useless by their folly—or something worse.' 

He continued, 'But that's not all—his superior then asked Captain Cameron whether he believed that you would join them, and how far you had come along this road. Our spy believes that perhaps this Cameron is befriending you in order to persuade you to join the rebels—and in that case, I cannot think your information is to be relied upon.' 

If the earlier revelation of Ardroy's betrayal of his trust had shocked Keith, at this second one he lost his breath entirely, as though from a blow to the chest, and could make no immediate reply. 

Before he could gather his wits, and attempt to defend himself, General Hawley stepped forward. Wisps of his white hair stuck out from under his wig, and his eyes gleamed in a way that Keith could not help but see as malevolent. 'I was about to execute this same Captain Cameron as a spy, in London, when Captain Windham interfered, with his damned impertinence. He actually stepped in front of the muskets, the madman!' 

The obvious rejoinder to this: that Ardroy was quite evidently no spy, but a paroled officer, and should be treated as such, came but slowly to Keith's tongue, for he was still stunned, and despite the danger to himself, the question of Ardroy's intentions towards him filled his mind. 

'Shall we have him shot as a spy, then?' said Hawley, in an offhand manner. 'Since he has such a wish to give his life for the rebels.' 

St Clair stepped in. 'Captain Windham belongs to my regiment, and has a good record. He might be guilty, or he might not, but I'll not see him shot without a court martial!' 

'I agree,' said Major-General Huske. 'That seems premature. And his intelligence is plausible—we must weigh the dangers of rejecting it, as well as accepting it.' 

Cumberland, having listened to these arguments, now said decisively, 'We have no time for a court martial at the moment. Let us lock him up in the town gaol, and return to weightier matters—including how to handle his intelligence.' 

He beckoned to a sergeant with the sentries outside, and gave the order. While the generals debated how to dispose their forces, Captain Windham was brought through the dark streets of Luton, alive with troops, and unceremoniously shut up in a cell. 

The door closed on him and the key turned in the lock, and Keith stared at it desperately. His mind was in a turmoil: his own disgrace, and the danger if the generals should disregard his intelligence, but the thought that cut the deepest was the possibility of Ewen betraying him-- his every feeling rejected it. 

Keith forced himself to take a deep breath and sit on the narrow cot, and consider the matter rationally: that he had met Ewen near the enemy's camp, and that Ewen had let him go, with the words that he did not consider him an enemy, was indubitably true. It was very possible that they should have been observed, and Keith could well see that Ewen's actions might cast Keith in a rather bad light, seen by a Hanoverian spy—though in the moment, Keith had rather worried about the consequences for Ewen himself. 

That in itself, then, he could dismiss. 

But next came something rather more damning: that Ewen had betrayed what Keith had said in confidence, criticising the conduct of his own side, and that he had done so in front of his superiors, and in so public a setting that it could have been heard by this spy. It had to be true, for how else could that spy have known of Keith's words? 

He knew Ewen to be immovably loyal to his cause, and seen in that light, it was not strange to report on the doings and sayings of an enemy officer, and consider how they might be turned to the advantage of that cause. 

Keith wrapped his cloak further round himself, in a coldness of the heart rather than of the body. His own pain at Ewen's actions surely betrayed his own folly more than anything else—that he should have thought it meant something, when Ewen bedded him in that room in London! 

As for the spy's assertion that Ewen was befriending Keith in order to persuade him to join the rebels—Keith could have sworn that Ewen's manner towards him was genuine. But, in that case, why the betrayal of his confidence, when questioned about Keith by his superiors? 

Keith recalled another instance when his head had been turned by a pretty face, and by protestations of love and fidelity—not that Ewen had ever promised him that! He had never doubted Lydia for an instant, until that moment in her boudoir, when the scales had fallen from his eyes, and he had seen her false nature for what it really was. 

Had he not yet learnt his lesson, then? Was a handsome face, and an attractive body, and a warm manner, enough for Keith to throw away all his dearly bought philosophy and commit again that fatal mistake of falling in love, leaving himself vulnerable to the pain that would inevitably follow? How long had he even known Ewen Cameron? Only a few months. And that brief acquaintance had been all he needed to open his heart. 

Keith curled up on his side on the cot in the dark, pulling his knees up like a child, and drawing the doubtless lousy blanket over the cloak, against the cold of the cell. If he could only regain his previous cynical detachment, or, failing that, gain the oblivion of sleep, but the pain was yet too sharp to be so easily numbed. 

As if his mind wished to torture him, he remembered Ewen undressing him, taking all his defences down, and the sweetness of Ewen's hands and mouth on his body. Well, people bedded each other every day who had no particular attachment, or who only pretended such in order to clothe their physical needs in some less tawdry guise. Kisses were no guarantee of love, or proof against the betrayal of a confidence. 

He would not weep—he _would not_. And, though it cost him a struggle to avoid the shame of it, he did not, though his throat was closed up with the tears he did not shed. 

Though he lay sleepless for many hours, in the end he slept, for his body was exhausted though his mind was still distressed. 

And in the morning, the Hanoverian army marched south, leaving behind in gaol that officer who, though utterly loyal, had lost his heart to a rebel and paid for it in that coin which, once lost, is so difficult to regain: his credibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles Edward Stuart actually did convert to the Anglican Church in 1750, so it seems reasonable that he might do so in 1745 instead. As for Scottish independence, in a manifesto he and James said: 'the King cannot possibly ratify [the Union]...' and '...whatever may be hereafter devised for the joint benefit of both nations, the King will most readily comply with the request of his Parliaments to establish.' Note the plural of 'Parliaments'. But of course, it's easy to promise things, and who knows what would've happened if they actually won… 
> 
> In actual history, the Jacobites aborted their invasion of England and turned back at Derby, because they judged that they had too few troops (they had about 5,000 at the most) and because they thought there might be another Hanoverian force between them and London (which there was not). In this AU, the Jacobite troops are about 7,500 strong when they arrive, both because of the regiment of the Irish Brigade, and because it was easier for them to recruit. 
> 
> The Hanoverian forces defending London were a bit fewer than 7,000, but when the 600 soldiers of the Black Watch went over to the Jacobites, they got more of a numerical advantage (and also the Hanoverians were a bit spread out at first). The Black Watch were indeed seen as very unreliable by the Hanoverians, and so were the Royal Scots, to a lesser degree. The Hanoverian defense of London is modelled on the plans historically made by St Clair. 
> 
> Dudley Bradstreet was a Hanoverian spy (and con artist) who in actual history took the credit for making the Jacobites turn back at Derby, by convincing them there was a fourth Hanoverian force between them and London (Cumberland was to their northwest, Wade to their north-east, and there was also the force defending London itself). Other sources seem not to contradict that he was there and said that, but divisions among the Jacobite command also seem to have contributed. Bradstreet wrote an autobiography which is still in print, though I haven't read it. 
> 
> Actually the Hanoverians were right to be wary of Keith's information, if they mistrusted him! If the information about the French were false, and it made them hesitate to go into battle, that would have been the exact same thing that Bradstreet did to the Jacobites.


	5. Part IV: To Put Right If I Could

Ewen dismounted at last, very tired, in front of the inn at Highgate, where many of the Highland officers were billeted. He handed his horse off to a groom, and, following the mouthwatering scent of food, made his way to the common room. 

'Ewen!' cried his cousin Alan Stewart, making way for him at the table. 'Sit down, and have something to eat.' 

'Thank you,' said Ewen, squeezing in between Alan and a young MacDonald captain. 

He asked the serving maid for supper, and soon Ewen had a plate of steak pie in front of him. He thanked her courteously, for he did not want to leave the southerners with a bad impression of Highlanders, and forced himself to eat slowly, for he was ravenous. 

'Where have you been all day?' asked Alan. 

'In Hendon, and Hampstead, and Kilburn, and…' Ewen frowned. 'I forget the other name. I've been securing billets for the men.' 

That first night, much of the army had had to sleep in the camp at Finchley Common, despite the cold, for there had not been time to find billets for them after the battle. But now, when they had a few days' breathing room before Cumberland's army could arrive, they must let the troops sleep indoors, so that they might rest and be ready for the next battle. They were all under the strictest orders not to make trouble in the villages. 

'And you?' asked Ewen. 

'I've been distributing the muskets taken in the battle, and making sure they go to those who did not have a good one before,' said Alan. 

He bumped his shoulder against Ewen's affectionately. 'I'm sorry you were captured, and missed the march into England, and the capture of Carlisle...oh, and marching into Manchester! You should have seen how they welcomed us, with the girls in white dresses, and the cheering crowds. The Prince was so grand!' 

Ewen grinned at him. 'I did see him ride into London! That was grand, too.' 

'That's right, you did. And how did the enemy treat you, in Edinburgh?' 

'Well enough,' replied Ewen, but said nothing about Keith Windham, or the paroled officers in Perth who had been 'liberated', or how he had almost been shot. He had told Lochiel, but that was different—his relationship with Keith felt like too delicate a thing to throw about in conversation in the common room of an inn. 'But despite spending weeks there, I went by ship to London, and was here before you.' 

'Yes, you were spared weeks in the saddle,' said Alan, and then yawned. 'Oh, but food and wine make me sleepy after a day like this, and I have an early watch tomorrow morning. Come on, I saved you a place in our room, and you can share my bed.' For crowded as the inn was, they all had to double up, as was usual in such circumstances. 

Ewen, having finished his meal, was glad to join him. Soon they were abed, and not even Ardsheal's snoring from across the room could keep Ewen awake for long. Before he slipped into sleep, he wondered where Keith was, though there could hardly be a doubt: he must be with the Hanoverian army which was approaching them, and would be here within a few days. 

With the thousands of men in both armies, surely the odds were against them encountering each other in the battle—indeed, he hoped it would not happen, but as Fate seemed to have taken a special interest in them, he would not count on the unlikelihood of their meeting preventing it, and he would make sure he did not aim his sword strokes at the wrong redcoat. But two more meetings they were guaranteed, for after that third meeting, Ewen had begun really to believe in his foster-father's prophecy. 

And after that, who knew? Oh, to share a bed with Keith, to have his warm body here next to him...and in such pleasant imaginings, Ewen fell asleep. 

Ewen Cameron and Alan Stewart were mere captains, and did not have much to do with the larger strategy—in fact, none of them knew yet of the French troops who had last night landed on the coast. Having set out from Boulogne in the dark of night, in silence and with lights out, the flotilla of fast privateers, smugglers, and fishing-boats made their way, laden with troops, across the narrow channel, guided by pilots from the Kent and Sussex smugglers, who had close relations to their counterparts across the sea. 

The British Western Squadron was keeping a check on the Brest fleet, and in any case, the lumbering first and second rates could not venture into the shallow waters of the Channel in winter. Admiral Vernon of the Royal Navy kept a small squadron there, but they could not watch everywhere. 

The dash across the Channel was thus accomplished unopposed, and the troops of the Royal Écossais, the Irish Brigade, and some other French regiments were landed near Dungeness, and were guided on secret ways through the Romney Marsh by the smugglers of the Hawkhurst gang, who reigned unopposed in the dense forests of the Weald where the customs officers feared to go. 

They marched north towards London, as Cumberland's army marched south, under the sullen winter skies. 

Ewen Cameron's days were kept busy, acting again as aide-de-camp to the Prince. He knew little of the politics of London, and of England as a whole, and his head spun with the complexities of what he heard in some of the conferences he attended. In this latest one, Sir Watkin Williams Wynn of North Wales, who had been kept in London and questioned there by the Government, now offered to ride to the Jacobite Earl of Barrymore and help him raise northern Wales for the Prince. Conversely, news reached them of peers in Leicester, Bedford, and other places in the East Midlands raising new regiments for the Elector. 

But Ewen was only a messenger, and thankfully did not need to understand the import, or know the contents, of all the despatches he carried. He only knew that very soon, they would have a second battle for London, which would very likely decide their fate, and that of Britain as a whole. And that very evening, he received the orders to rouse his men early in the morning, and be ready to march to battle—where, he did not know yet. 

That next day hung in the balance, for the Hanoverian army with Cumberland had a numerical advantage, yet they were tired with the marching and the cold, and the Jacobite army had rested for several days, with roofs over their heads. Then again, Cumberland had an artillery train and experienced gunners, while the Jacobites, having captured the Hanoverian artillery in the first battle, yet lacked enough experienced men to fully man the guns, despite the valiant efforts of Lieutenant-Colonel James Grant, the Jacobite commander of artillery, to train them up in time. 

It was yet unclear which way the battle would turn, but the day was decided by the arrival of the five thousand French troops. Some of the troops had broken at the Highlanders' charge, but those troops were many of them new recruits, and many of the Hanoverian regiments held together and made an orderly retreat. For it was now the third battle of the war, and Cumberland and St Clair had had some time to accustom the troops to tactics which would counter the Highland charge. 

It was only Ewen's second battle, for though he had been at the Corryarrick, he had been in prison during the first battle for London. He thought it nothing like that first, small battle, for that had been decided by the first charge, and there were not so many troops on either side—he found this battle far more confusing and difficult to compass, and was glad he had orders to follow. At the end of it, he found that miraculously, he had not been hit by any bullet, and aside from a glancing wound from a bayonet, he was unharmed, though his limbs were shaking with the aftermath of exertion and emotion. 

After ensuring that the wounded among his own men were cared for, Ewen asked for, and was assigned, the task of handling the officers who had been captured, for he sorely wanted to get news of Keith. Despite the prophecy, he knew that Keith might conceivably lie cold on the ground, among the dead bodies strewn on the field, and Ewen might never be sure of it. 

As he made a list of the captives, and asked them to surrender any weapons—a request which was courteously made, but tacitly backed up by a guard of armed Camerons—he asked each one whether they knew anything of a Captain Keith Windham, of the Royal Scots. Most of them shrugged, and one knew him by name, but had no news, until he came to a Captain Havelock, of the Royals. 

'You're that former prisoner of Windham's, sir, as I recall,' said this officer. 'Though I suppose the tables are turned now—are you trying to get even with him, then?' 

'No!' said Ewen, horrified. 'I am under an obligation to him—I only wish him well. Do you have news of him?' 

'I suppose I do, at that.' 

Ewen's heart beat faster, but he must finish his task first. 'I'll speak with you later, then, sir.' There were not so many officers captured as at the first battle, and he found room for them with the others. 

Taking Captain Havelock aside, outside the crowded house, he asked, 'Tell me your news, sir. How did Windham fare in the battle?' 

'Windham was not in the battle,' said Havelock. 

'Not in the battle?' asked Ewen in confusion. 

'He was thrown in gaol in Luton.' 

'What?' said Ewen, in even greater confusion, and with less eloquence. 

'I heard that he was suspected of being a Jacobite spy—for what reason I don't know, but I suppose it wasn't enough to hang him outright. Though I must say it surprised me, for Windham doesn't strike me as that sort.' 

Ewen was horribly convinced that Windham's being suspected of espionage was somehow his fault, or at the very least, on his account—after all, Keith had already put himself at risk protecting Ewen's life from Hawley. 

Havelock was watching his face shrewdly. 'So he is not a spy, then.'

'No, a thousand times no!' exclaimed Ewen. 'Please, is there anything else you can tell me?' 

Havelock shrugged, spreading his hands. 'I am not privy to the generals' councils, I'm afraid. And I didn't meet him—what I have told you, I only heard by way of rumours.' 

'Well, I thank you for it,' said Ewen, recalling his manners. 'And now, I regret to say that I must ask you to step inside.' 

'I thank you for your courtesy, at any rate,' Havelock said, with some slight irony, and then, with a muttered comment about being stuck minding the recruits, and taking the consequences for it, he entered the house. 

Ewen spoke with the officer in charge of the watch over the prisoners, then bade his men go to their billets, for it was late. Mounting his horse, he rode slowly towards the inn at Highgate, the road only barely visible in the dark on account of the snow. 

What ought he to do? His heart bade him go to Keith, and his honour too, for if it was Ewen's fault that Keith was in gaol, he ought to do everything in his power to put it right—if, indeed, he could. His duty bade him stay, and Lochiel's express orders, as well, for had he not cautioned him outright not to let his friendship with Keith interfere with his duty a second time? 

Ewen arrived at the inn with his course yet undecided and his heart heavy, and found Alan Stewart in their room, with Ardsheal still out. 

'For a man who has had a victory today, you look rather glum,' remarked Alan. He had had a musket ball in his thigh, but looked quite cheerful despite the bandage, for he had gained it while leading his men in a brave charge. 

Ewen hesitated only for a second, for with his open nature, and his friendship with his cousin, it was not in him to keep quiet. And perhaps Alan could help him decide what to do. 'A friend of mine is in mortal peril, and to my shame, I think it may be my fault.' 

'How so? Tell me about it.' 

'Do you remember my parole prisoner, that I took at High Bridge in the beginning of the war? Captain Keith Windham.' 

Alan frowned. 'I can't say that I do. That is, I recall that you had a prisoner, but not much about him.' 

No, why should he? 'Well, he escaped in Perth, and it was he who took me prisoner in Edinburgh. We spent weeks together, and he defended me against his fellow officers, when they spoke badly of our conduct, and in London, he even saved my life, when I was to be executed as a traitor, and with no trial, either. He's a good and honourable man, even though he is a Whig, and I...got to know him rather well,' concluded Ewen awkwardly, a slight flush rising in his cheeks, for of course he could not tell Alan just how close they had become. 

'That's quite a story!' said Alan, looking intrigued. 'And is he in trouble now, then?' 

'I...met him again the night after the battle.' Ewen told him how he had let Windham go, and been observed doing it, and Lochiel's admonishment. 'And I questioned the captured officers tonight, and one of them said that Windham had been thrown in gaol as a Jacobite spy! Which I absolutely refuse to believe—he is not that sort of man, and I know that he doesn't share our political creed. But I greatly fear that 'tis somehow his association with me that has caused his downfall, for I know that he considers me a friend. Alan, what should I do?' 

'Hmm.' Alan shifted his leg to a more comfortable position, wincing as he did so. 'You are sure that they haven't hanged him already? That is the usual course for spies.' 

'The prisoner I questioned said that Windham had been thrown in gaol and left behind, and in any case, I know that we will meet twice more.' 

'You—what? How can you possibly know that?' said Alan, startled. 

And so Ewen had to tell him of Old Angus' prophecy, as well, at which Alan looked rather impressed. 

'Oh! It's like an old romantic story,' he exclaimed. 'But I would not have thought you believed in such things.' 

'I wouldn't have done, ordinarily,' confessed Ewen, a little shamefaced, 'but now that three of the meetings have taken place, I cannot help but give it credence.' 

'Yes, I see that.' Alan looked thoughtful. 'But when a _taibhsear_ sees anyone it is often a warning of that person’s imminent death! That does not trouble you?' 

Ewen was silent for a space, then said, 'If that's the case, I can do nothing about it. And in this case he saw two people, and I know that we neither of us wish the other ill.' He did not say that a _taibhsear_ sometimes saw two people who were destined for marriage, for he did not think he could keep his expression from betraying his thoughts, if he did. 

'No, I suppose I see why you do not dwell on it. But let us return to your present dilemma: can you be sure that you won't make it worse, if you go to him? If a Jacobite attempts to rescue him, he might only seem the more guilty.' 

Ewen had thought something along those lines, but had not put it quite so baldly. He gave an unhappy little sigh, and buried his face in his hands. 'Yes—but there is already the chance that he will hang.' 

Alan watched him sympathetically. 'Well, let us think it through. I cannot think Cumberland left any garrison in Luton, for it is only a small town, and he would have needed all his men here.' 

'Do we know which way they are taking now?' said Ewen, heartened by Alan's practical approach. 

'I spoke with one of the gentlemen of Pitsligo's Horse, who had been out scouting after their retreat. He said that they were taking the Great North Road, not the road to Luton.' 

Ewen nodded. 'That makes sense, if they are planning to join Wade's army, coming from the north. And their army would be no obstacle to me, then, if I go to Windham. But they might send someone to fetch him, on their way north, so if I am to get to him first, and get him out of the gaol, I must hurry.' 

'You'll do it, then, against Lochiel's will?' 

Ewen was silent, for he had been speaking in hypotheticals still, and disobeying Lochiel was not an easy thing for him to do—it was not the thought of the possible punishment that stayed him, but of Lochiel's disappointment. 

He brought his knees up to rest his forehead upon them. 'Oh, Alan, I don't know! But if Windham hangs, because of his friendship with me, and I didn't try to save him from it—and he saved my life! In that case, it might be his wraith that I'll tryst with, in the next two meetings. Oh, I couldn't stand it.' 

'If you go, it shouldn't be alone—you might be going into hostile territory,' said Alan, still thinking along practical lines. 'Take Lachlan with you.' 

'He has no horse,' protested Ewen. 

'Well, borrow mine then—I cannot ride it at present.' 

'Thank you, Alan,' said Ewen, and knew that he had already made his decision to go, however he might equivocate. 'I must write Donald a letter, and leave very early in the morning, so that I won't be shirking my duty for long. Oh, I hope he will forgive me, but if not, I'll gladly take my punishment.' 

'At least this time it isn't my fault you are in a scrape,' said Alan, his tone reminding Ewen of the several scrapes they had been in as boys together. 'I hope this Windham is worth it.' 

'Oh, he is!' said Ewen with emphasis, as he found a paper, and rummaged in his bag for a pencil. Alan held one out to him, and he took it. 

At this point, Ardsheal came in, and Ewen fell silent, and began to write his letter. For he rather looked up to the older Ardsheal, who had been his teacher in swordfighting, and felt shy of hearing his possible judgment over Ewen's dilemma.

* * *

_Dear Donald,_

_Perhaps I ought not to address you in so familiar a Fashion, for I am about to disobey you, and I do not presume that the Regard in which you know that I hold you, or the Familiarity of our Relations, should in any way ameliorate my Punishment. I know that you will be a fair Judge of my Deserts._

_I have learn'd that my Friend, Captain Keith Windham, is thrown into Gaol in Luton as a suspected Jacobite Spy, which we both of us know is very far from being the Truth, and I am persuaded that it is on my Account that he is unjustly imprison'd and might soon face the Noose. His preventing my Execution in London is itself a Count against him, among the Hanoverians, and neither my Honour nor my Heart can bear that he, who stepp'd in front of the Muskets for me, should hang for it._

_I hope, then, that you can understand my Reasons (I do not call them Excuses) for neglecting that Duty, which in all other Circumstances would be my first Object, and indeed, my Joy and Delight, for you know that I am most devoted to my rightful Sovereign, and to my Clan Chief, and would never have acted thus, had we been upon the Eve of Battle._

_I ride, very early in the Morn, to Luton, which I have heard is not in the Path of the Elector's retreating Army, in the Hope that in the Absence of a Garrison, I may be able to effect my Friend's Release. I pray you, do not punish Lachlan MacMartin, for he will only be following my Orders. And, as soon as ever I can, I will return to my Duty, and submit to your Judgment._

_Your disobedient, but humble and penitent, Servant,_  
_Ewen_

Lochiel read this missive the next morning with a frown upon his face, shaking his head, for besides thinking that he could not withhold some measure of punishment for this second lapse of the young captain of his regiment, coming as it did after an express warning, he was worried about him thus riding almost alone into potentially hostile territory. But he could not say that he was much surprised—it was difficult to believe that his cousin, with his warm and loyal temperament, and his chivalrous code of honour, should not have ridden to the rescue of one who had saved his life at the risk of his own. 

That young disobedient cousin was by now halfway to Luton, having roused Lachlan very early that morning, and, followed unquestioningly by his foster-brother on Alan Stewart's horse, ridden away with all the haste the darkness allowed. Aided by the moonlight, which was only diffused, and not obscured, by the thin and ragged cloud-cover, they were able to reach Luton by ten in the morning. 

Motivated by self-preservation, most of the inhabitants of Luton had cheered for the Hanoverian army when it passed through, and three days before that, and for the same reason, they had cheered equally for the Jacobite army. Ewen and Lachlan, riding boldly into town with their plaids proclaiming their allegiance, were regarded warily, for they might be the heralds of a returning army, which the town had no wish to quarter. 

At the town gaol, Ewen imperiously demanded to see the prisoner Keith Windham. The warden, eyeing him with that same wariness and having no wish to argue with his broadsword or that of his companion, acceded to his request, and, with Lachlan waiting in the hallway outside, Ewen was let into Keith's cell. The door closed behind him. 

The cell was hardly that of a dungeon, the gaol being a newly constructed one, but in the daylight that entered through the small window, Keith Windham looked rather haggard, his cheeks unshaven and his clothes rumpled. But this brief moment of vulnerability was before he fully recognised his visitor; when he did, he stiffened and his face closed up. 

He said, in a tone as frigid as the snow outside, 'Captain Cameron. I did not expect to see you here.' Windham took a small step back—not that he could get much further from Ewen than he already was, in the confines of the small cell. 

Ewen, thrown off his balance by this cold reception, hesitated, then said uncertainly, 'Windham. I had news of you after the battle, from a captured officer, who said you were locked up as a spy.' 

'And you came to see the result of your handiwork?' said Windham scornfully. He spread his hands. 'Well, here I am.' 

Ewen made a small sound of distress. 'Is it on my account, then? I was afraid it might be, after you saved me in London.'

'Do you need to ask? I should think your actions would be rather memorable.' 

Ewen opened his mouth, then closed it, dismayed beyond words by the cutting tone. He searched his memory, but recalled no action of his that might have betrayed Keith—but that did not mean he had not committed one. 'Please,' he said humbly. 'If I have betrayed you, it was unwittingly. Tell me what I have done, that I may, if possible, make amends for it.' 

'Well, perhaps you betray such confidences every day, and do not particularly remember this instance of it. I want you to leave,' said Windham bluntly. 'I don't want to see you again.' 

Ewen felt as though a blow had struck his chest, leaving him breathless. He looked at Keith for a long moment, but it only prolonged the pain, to see the other man looking back at him so coldly. Ewen had once held Keith in his arms, and longed to do so again, but that moment in London seemed immeasurably distant, though it was only days ago. 

Ewen turned from him with a heavy heart. Was it hopeless, then? But a spark of his stubborn temper, not easily roused, but there to sustain him when he needed it, would not let him leave. 

He raised his head, looking at Windham with steady purpose. 'I'll not leave without knowing what I did, for if I do, I will never rest easy. You will tell me, Keith Windham, and then, if you still wish it, I will relieve you of my presence.' 

'Very well, then,' said Windham, gazing back at him implacably. 'Do you deny that you said, before such witnesses as would carry the tale, that I praised the conduct of the rebels, and condemned that of my own side? And did you not discuss how to bring me to desert my own side, and join yours?' 

Ewen was silent, thinking, and then said, slowly, 'As to your first allegation, I did say that, at least as regards the treatment of prisoners.' 

'And you must have said it in so public a fashion that it had reached the ears of my superiors!' 

'No! I said it to Lochiel—no one else was present.' 

'No? And the other?' 

Ewen replied, in distress, for he had indeed said words that might be interpreted in that fashion—though never meant them that way! 'Windham, I have all the respect in the world for your allegiance! It is true that Lochiel asked me whether you might change it, since you seemed sympathetic to us, and I replied, that you were not sympathetic to our cause, only to our conduct in the war. I swear to you, I would not try to persuade you to desert—such a thing has never entered my mind.' 

Ewen thought he could see a slight softening in Windham's expression, but he continued, his voice still hard. 'How, then, do you explain that the commanders of the King's army knew of these things? I was told that a spy in your camp had carried the word: that he had observed you letting me go, while saying that you did not see me as an enemy—which I know to be true, of course—and then heard those words from your lips, which, in the minds of my superiors, condemned me as a covert Jacobite and spy.' 

Ewen gaped, as he made the connection. 'Bradstreet,' he breathed. 

'What? 

'A man named Bradstreet, a volunteer who has recently joined us, had happened to see us meet, that evening when I let you go outside the camp. He confronted me about it, before Lochiel, saying that he feared I was a traitor, and Lochiel, having sent him away, questioned me. Lochiel did not, of course, think that I was a traitor, but to explain my conduct I told him that you had saved my life in London, and somewhat about you, though not, of course, of...the other thing that happened in London.' He flushed, looking away. 

Ewen continued, 'We were alone in a tent, and I suppose this Bradstreet must have listened in. 'Twould not have occurred to me, that a gentleman would do such a thing! But if he is a spy, as it seems he must be, then…' 

Ewen fell silent. Windham was looking steadily at him, and they neither of them said anything for a moment. Ewen found it difficult to read his countenance, and hoped it was not only his own wishes that led him to see it perhaps changing somewhat. It did sting a little, that Keith had believed him capable of such acts, but he could see that circumstances had conspired to give such an impression, and the consequences of what Ewen had in fact said had certainly been momentous enough. 

'Windham,' Ewen continued softly, 'I acknowledge that it must be, in part, my fault that you were suspected of being a spy. But I swear to you, by my honour as a gentleman, and by the regard in which I hold you, that it was not my intent. It was, perhaps, ill done of me to tell Lochiel what you had said, and I am sorry for it. Will you accept my apology, and tell me how I may, if possible, make amends?' 

Ewen waited, heart pounding, while Keith Windham looked away so that he might think more clearly, without being affected by that sight which could not help but soften his heart. 

Finally, Windham said, still somewhat stiffly, 'Ardroy. I accept your apology. By all I have known of you, you are an honourable man, and it would be ill done of me to take hearsay, and the word of a spy who is unknown to me, over yours. I should not have doubted you.' 

Ewen relaxed a little, and said warmly, 'Thank you. And I can only imagine how painful it must have been for you, to join your own side in good faith, and be thought a traitor, and imagine also that I had betrayed you! I wish you could have been spared it.' 

The expression on Keith's face, before he looked away, told Ewen that he had indeed suffered during his days in captivity, and Ewen's heart went out to him. 

But it seemed that Keith did not wish to dwell on the experience, for he said, 'Tell me—how goes the war? I do not ask you to betray anything which is not common knowledge, of course.' 

Ewen did not resist the change to a more neutral subject, if such it could be called. 'The Hanoverian army arrived in London yesterday, and was defeated, for we had aid from French troops who had crossed the Channel.'

Windham looked grim, but strangely, not very surprised. 'I may perhaps tell you that I knew of the French, from words I had overheard by chance on the road. But, since I was suspected of Jacobite sympathies, my superiors doubted my intelligence, and thought it might be a ploy to make them turn, and not attempt the battle.'

'Oh! That must have been intolerable, to be the bearer of such important news, and not be credited.' Ewen could well imagine the distress it had caused him. 

Keith's mouth twisted in bitterness. 'Yes.' 

'Well, I shall go on with my news. Many of your regiments made an orderly retreat, and they are marching now along the Great North Road. The rest of the country is divided—North Wales is rising for King James, and Manchester is certainly ours, but Liverpool is firm in your interest, as I suppose you must guess, and Leicester and Bedford seem to be rising for the Elector—oh, I beg your pardon…' 

Keith gave him the shadow of a smile. 'He _is_ the Elector of Hanover, as well—you need not apologise.' 

'Nevertheless, I intended no offence. That's all the news I have, I think.' But another thought struck Ewen. 'By what you have said, in combination with my own experiences, I now know that this Bradstreet is a spy, and, though I hate to take advantage of information which you cannot have meant to betray to me, it is my duty to report it to my superiors. I hope you understand that, and will not hold it against me?' 

Keith sobered. 'It is certainly your duty, for it is important information, and I would have reported it myself, had I been in your place. No, I cannot hold it against you, for it is my own fault that you know it.' 

'Thank you. If Lochiel asks me how I know, I must tell him, but when he learns how my conversation with him landed you in gaol, I think he will agree to keep your inadvertent involvement in Bradstreet's exposure quiet. For I certainly do not wish that information to get about, so that you should suffer for it.' 

Keith frowned, looking unhappy. 'I know you don't mean it that way, but it does not sit well with me that my betrayal of information, even if it was inadvertent, should be covered up by the silence of Jacobite officers. But I thank you for the offer—if you'll keep it as quiet as possible for now, I shall confess it to Colonel St Clair myself when I can.' 

Keith Windham rose even more in Ewen's estimation. 'Gladly. And I respect you for it. May I ask, what your plans are now? If you wish it, I believe I could get you out of this place—the town seems ready to submit to either army, and if I tell the warden that the Hanoverian army is retreating north, and that I, as a Jacobite officer, order your release, I think it would be done. If you wish it, of course.' 

Keith gave him a wry smile. 'You would order the release of an officer of King George?' 

'It is certainly by no design of ours that you are imprisoned—rather, by a misunderstanding which is partly my fault. But you're right, I am shirking my duty, and in more senses than one: I rode here this morning against Lochiel's orders, for he warned me when I let you go outside the camp, not to neglect my duty a second time on your account. I left him a letter to explain myself, but I'll go back as soon as I can, and submit to any punishment he sees fit to give me.' 

Keith looked taken aback. 'You did that for my sake?' 

Ewen coloured, for he had not planned at first to admit to it. 'I would not have done it on the eve of battle. But after the battle, yes—my honour could not bear that you should be thus unjustly accused on my account.' And more than his honour, but he did not know if Keith would wish to hear that. 

'I thank you, and I hope that your punishment will not be severe,' said Keith quietly. They fell silent for a while, looking at each other. 

Then Keith looked away, and said in a more businesslike tone, 'I would not ordinarily wish to escape from an imprisonment my superiors had ordered, but the circumstances are extraordinary—if the army is retreating, I'll be left in territory controlled by the enemy. In that case, I think I will take you up on your offer, for I believe I can do my cause more good out of prison than in it.' 

Ewen nodded. 'Then I shall do my best for you.' 

He wondered what Keith's plans were, but did not ask. Instead, he drew a deep breath and lowered his voice, though he knew that the door was thick enough. 'But, however, I cannot part from you without telling you how much I wish that we may meet again, in some happier circumstance. I don't know whether you regret...what we did in London, or not, but I will tell you that I do not regret it. My regard for you is only strengthened, and—and I would very much like to embrace you, before you leave.' 

Ewen's heart pounded, and he turned his gaze away somewhat, having laid out his heart on a platter as far as he might. But he took no step towards Keith—Ewen remembered how, in that room in London, he had taken the first step, and how Keith had, eventually, responded with passion, but afterwards, he had withdrawn and seemed rather reserved. If they embraced now, Ewen was determined that Keith should come to him—for how, otherwise, could Ewen be sure that he was not simply being carried along by desire, against his more considered will? 

Ewen felt that time stretched immeasurably as he waited for Keith's reply, but he could not say whether half a minute had passed, or five minutes. But as he looked at Keith, his face clearly showed that he was struggling with strong emotion. 

'I am sorry,' said Keith finally, 'that I have made you wait for an answer—' 

'Don't be,' said Ewen quietly, 'for I would not wish you to give an ill-considered one.' But oh! if Keith rejected him...Ewen steeled himself for it, for it now seemed rather probable. 

'It is not that I—that I do not wish it,' said Keith, slow and halting. 'Only that I cannot see—and I—' 

Then he said in a stronger voice, 'No, I cannot deny you! Nor myself,' and then he closed the distance that parted them, looking into his eyes with an intensity which matched that which Ewen felt, but had tried to keep in check while he waited for Keith's reply. 

Ewen's heart pounded with hope now, and as Keith stepped still closer, Ewen let his arms close round him, with a small choked-off sound of emotion. They said nothing for a while, while their hands and bodies spoke in other ways. 

Keith's face was turned into Ewen's neck, and Ewen had his face in Keith's hair, whispering in his ear, 'Oh, Keith, Keith –may I call you that?' 

He could feel Keith laughing against him. 'Surely.'

Then Keith raised his head, though did not let go of him. 'Ewen. I'm sorry that I doubted you—I cannot now imagine how I could do so. Will you forgive me?' 

'Gladly,' said Ewen. 

And then, to Ewen's great joy, Keith reached up, without hesitation, to pull him down into a kiss. 

Their lips met briefly, and then Ewen, with regret, interrupted to say, 'Come closer to the door—if it should open, we should be behind it—'

'Yes, of course,' Keith murmured, and then they came together again, in slow, intimate exploration. It was very different, thought Ewen, from their fervent kisses in that room in London, when they had been on fire together, after Ewen had nearly died. But oh, how sweet they were! 

'You don't mean to capture me, then?' asked Ewen, a little giddy from their mutual caresses, as though he were drunk. 'I am certainly distracted enough. You might take one of my pistols, so—' and he brought Keith's hand to it, '—and hold it to my ribs.' 

Keith snorted in amusement. ''Twould take a cold-hearted man indeed, to do such a thing. Do you think me capable of it?' 

'No—no, I don't think your heart is cold, at all.' And he bent his head to kiss his redcoat with more intent, for Keith had already captured him more surely than he could ever do at pistol-point. 

Their embrace had grown more heated than was advisable under the circumstances, and Ewen pushed Keith away a little. But Keith, reaching down his hand, put it very lightly where Ewen's trews now felt rather confining. 

Ewen groaned, his desire increased not just by the touch, but by the knowing curl of Keith's mouth. 'Ah, no! You will rob me of what wits I have.' 

'I am sorry,' murmured Keith. He did not look very sorry, but he did take his hand away, and hold Ewen at arm's length. 

'Oh, Keith. I wish that we could lie in a bed together, for a whole night,' whispered Ewen. 'I would have you, again and again, until we could not see straight.' 

Keith began to look rather flushed, but he took a deep breath, and kept the distance between them. 'The warden may come back, at any minute. And much as I share your ambition, concerning the bed, I also have another one: that we should know how to reach one another, after the war is over. Do you remember that I once spoke of my step-father, the Earl of Stowe? You may write to me at Stowe House, if you cannot find me any other way.' 

'I'm glad one of us has some wits left,' Ewen muttered, and tried to clear his head. 'The prophecy predicts one more meeting, so that we are guaranteed, at least. If, that is, you believe it. 

A thought struck Ewen, regarding the prophecy. 'Keith. Do you remember the prediction that I should both do you a service, and cause you grief? Perhaps that has now come to pass, for I have certainly caused you grief, and, I hope, done you a service in releasing you.' 

Keith frowned in thought. 'Possibly. But when a supposed prophecy is couched in such vague terms, 'tis easy enough to believe it fulfilled, by a wide variety of events.' 

Ewen shrugged. 'Perhaps you are right. And you are, of a certainty, right that we should think of making our own plans for the future, when the war is over.' 

They both fell silent for a space, for the end of the war might mean a Jacobite victory, or a Hanoverian one, and one or the other of them would be on the losing side and meet an uncertain fate. But dwelling on that now would serve no purpose. 

'Keith,' Ewen said softly, 'write to me at Ardroy, if we do not meet another way.' 

Ewen could not help using his lover's first name more than he needed to, for he liked the way it felt in his mouth, and revelled in his permission to use it. 

They might have stayed in that room for hours, bare as it was, for they were hungry for all the company they could get of each other. But the stretch of time that Fate had allotted for their fourth meeting was running out, and, at the warden's knock on the door, they sprang apart. When the door opened, they appeared as though they had merely been in conversation. 

Ewen, leaving Keith in the room, closed the door behind him. Addressing the warden, he said, 'The Hanoverian army lost the battle at London yesterday, and is now withdrawing northwards, harried by our troops. It is the second battle they have recently lost. I do not believe those officers who ordered you to keep this prisoner will be returning for him, and I, as a Jacobite officer, order you to let him go.' 

Ardroy's voice held all the unconscious authority of his social station, and, to the warden's protest that he might risk punishment if the Hanoverian officers should, after all, return, replied that he might say that he was overpowered. And indeed, Lachlan's glowering gaze declared him quite capable of violence. 

In the end, the warden agreed to let Keith go. 

'I am conscious of the difficulty that you are in, caught between two armies,' said Ardroy, wishing to show him some consideration. 'I thank you for your cooperation.' 

The warden let Windham out and returned his sword, which had been left to his care. Muttering under his breath that Ardroy could best thank him by keeping any and all armies from the town, he retreated to his office. 

'There, it is done,' said Ewen to Keith. 'I hope 'twill not have any ill consequences for you, that I have let you out.' 

Keith looked grim. 'I must endeavour to redeem myself, in the eyes of my superiors.' But how he would do so, he said nothing of, and Ewen did not expect him to. 

'I bid you farewell, then,' said Ewen in a businesslike manner, for they had taken their private farewells in the cell. 

Keith likewise took his leave, and Ewen, riding away, did not turn to see him again, though he sorely wished it. As they rode south, Ewen told Lachlan somewhat of his errand, in general terms, though not, of course, of his true feelings towards Keith. 

As they rode, past winter fields that waited, under their cover of snow, for the spring, and through small copses and villages that were closed in on themselves in the cold, a few flakes of snow began to fall. Ewen wondered wistfully where Keith was heading, and when they would meet again. 

As they came up to the crest of a small hill, they were suddenly face to face with a group of riders, clad in drab cloaks from underneath which Ewen glimpsed the red coats of soldiers. 

What cursed ill luck! Ewen, hemmed in, attempted to turn his horse, but found he could not, for he was surrounded. 

'Go!' he shouted to Lachlan, who had fallen some distance behind him on the slope, in Gaelic. 

'But—' Lachlan objected, and Ewen could well imagine him wishing to charge in to defend him, to no useful purpose. 

'Go! Follow, and see where they take me,' Ewen ordered him, with all the emphasis he could muster. 

The scouting party of the Hanoverian army, for such it must be, were numerous enough that resistance would be futile, and one of them had already grabbed his reins. But Ewen had the satisfaction of seeing Lachlan galloping away, and, though one of the soldiers followed, it seemed Lachlan had enough of a head start to get away.

* * *

Though he had no hope of his horse remaining in the stable, Keith nevertheless went to the inn first—but there, to his surprise, was Steady, turning his head to whuffle curiously at him. Keith marvelled at this stroke of good fortune, but supposed the proprietor of the inn had not dared to misappropriate an officer's horse. 

'Is he yours, then, sir?' said the voice of a young stableboy, seeing Keith's red coat. Keith, assenting, asked him to saddle up the horse, giving him a tip for the service. He went into the inn to settle the accounts for the horse's stay, and, while he was at it, got himself a hearty meal and a room in which he might wash up and shave. For, where he intended to go, he wished to make a good impression. 

Keith had, in his cell, been sunk in misery for more than one reason, and, though the meeting with Ewen had hardly resolved all his troubles, nevertheless his heart was so lightened by it that he looked forward with confidence to his present endeavour. 

Under a lowering sky from which flakes of snow were beginning to fall, Keith rode north. After several days' rest, Steady seemed fully recovered and indeed proved rather frisky, and Keith had to rein him in. 

'Steady, boy,' he said, and then had to laugh. 'Is that the reason I named you that, then?' 

But nothing could long turn his thoughts from the subject that most occupied them, and, as he rode, Keith saw in his mind's eye not the farms and small woodlands of Bedfordshire which he passed through, but Ewen Cameron, standing in the small cell in Luton and pleading earnestly for Keith to forgive him. 

And Keith could not doubt him. The accusations which Keith had heard from his commanders, and which had festered in his mind during his imprisonment, he had flung at Ewen Cameron like weapons. And Ewen, clearly in distress over his part in Keith's misfortune, had given an explanation such as Keith found entirely believable—indeed, he now felt ashamed of himself for the coldness with which he had accused Ewen, giving him no benefit of the doubt. 

That Ewen had told Lochiel of Keith's defence of the rebels' conduct, and his criticism of his own side, he no longer found very remarkable, for it had not taken place in a public setting. And had not Ewen heard Keith himself openly saying such things, in a mess hall full of officers in Edinburgh? Furthermore, it had been Lochiel, not Ewen, who had questioned whether Keith might not change his allegiance. 

Those fears that had been so easily awakened in Keith, that Ewen, like Lydia, was playing him false, had been dispelled in Ewen's presence, for when he had travelled here with the sole purpose of putting matters right, with considerable risk to himself, how could he be doubted? Though, if Keith was honest with himself, he had not been swayed primarily by such rational arguments, so much as by Ewen's open manner and words, which had gone straight to his heart. 

There remained, then, those more rational fears: that this attachment between them would lead to nothing but misery in the end, and that, Keith could still not dismiss, for it might very well come to pass. And yet, when Ewen had declared his continued regard, Keith had come to him. It had been a deliberate choice, this time, and not the unthinking rush of feeling that had carried him along in London. 

Having made that choice, Keith did not think he could unmake it: nothing would make him doubt Ewen's sincerity again, and, though they were very far from guaranteed any future felicity, yet Keith had hope. If they both survived the war, why should they not meet again in happier circumstances? It would have to be a furtive relationship, no doubt, and they would often be separated, but it would be more than worth it. 

And so, though it was the midst of winter, Keith Windham's heart bloomed as though it were high summer, for the seedling that had grown in August during his captivity in the Highlands had now broken through that barrier of cynicism which for so many years had kept his heart barren, and come into full flower. 

Keith felt none of the cold, during that long ride. 

Late in the afternoon, Keith arrived at Woburn Abbey, the seat of John Russell, Duke of Bedford. The Duke was in residence, but for the moment he was out, and Keith, upon stating his errand, was admitted to a waiting room. The room, and the house in general, might well have had a rather overbearing effect upon an army captain who had not the advantage of being brought up in a place such as Stowe House. 

Finally, a resplendent functionary came to bring Captain Windham to the Duke. He was an active man, five years Keith's senior, who was much given to playing cricket, and hunting on his estates, but at present he wore a vexed expression. 

'Captain Windham, is it?' 

Keith bowed. 'Yes, Your Grace. I am the step-son of the Earl of Stowe—I believe we met at a dinner party at Stowe House in London, perhaps three years ago.' The Duke was an associate of the Earl of Stowe, though with the difference in years between them, not a close one. 

Bedford's face changed, becoming more interested. 'Yes, I do recall it, now that you remind me—I hope Lord Stowe is well. Do you bear news from Cumberland?' 

'Lord Stowe was well the last I saw him, before the first battle of London, though I have had no word of him since. But no, Your Grace, I do not bear any official despatch,' said Keith, aware that he would now have to weigh his words very carefully indeed. 'I am on my way to rejoin the army, but since I have no orders that would prohibit it, I stopped here, hearing of the regiment you have raised.' 

Before Bedford could ask any inconvenient questions about where he had come from, Keith continued, 'You are perhaps aware that we have lost a second battle north of London?' 

Bedford drew in a breath. 'No—tell me more.' 

'The rebels had French aid, Your Grace, and our troops were obliged to retreat last night. They are heading north along the Great North Road, to join forces with General Wade's army, and I believe Cumberland would very much welcome your reinforcements.' 

Bedford looked grim. 'That's dire news, indeed. I have just come from an inspection of the regiment. They are fine men, but they are most of them fresh recruits, and I am no military man. Experienced officers are hard to come by—I have got some who were on half-pay from the army, but the rest are either over seventy, or they are fresh-faced squires' sons with no experience at all.' Bedford's look of vexation now seemed explained. 

'I would be glad to help organise and lead them to the army, Your Grace. If they are to do any good, now is the time.' He hoped very much that the Duke would take him up on his offer. 

Bedford, it seemed, was a man of action, for after only a slight pause, he said graciously, 'You are quite right, and you did well to come here. I shall accompany you to the regiment immediately, and install you in temporary command of it. It is perhaps irregular, but so is the whole regiment.' 

'I thank you, Your Grace,' said Captain Windham, bowing. 'You may depend upon me to do my utmost in the King's service and in yours. I shall organise the men to march east early next morning.' 

They mounted and rode through the gardens of Woburn Abbey, bare of leaf in the winter, speaking more minutely of the supply, equipment, and previous training of the troops. 

And so, when the vanguard of the retreating Hanoverian army came along the Great North Road to the village of Sandy at midday the next day, Cumberland found there, waiting for them, a sizeable body of blue-clad troops, and at its head the captain he had locked up in Luton. 

'Your Royal Highness,' said Captain Windham. 'This is the Duke of Bedford's regiment of foot. Hearing of the defeat north of London, I have taken it upon myself to carry that word to the Duke of Bedford, and with his permission, lead the regiment here.' 

Cumberland stared at him for a long moment. 'You take much upon yourself, Captain.' 

'I do so only to serve King George, Your Royal Highness,' said Windham firmly. 

The brazenness of the man! And how had he got out of gaol? But Cumberland found himself smiling—he was not without appreciation for such initiative, and the man's intelligence about the French had, after all, turned out to be true. No doubt these troops, like the other 'noble' regiments, were untrained, but they were at least well equipped, and in their present circumstances he was hardly likely to turn down any reinforcements that should turn up. 

'Very well, Captain Windham. For now, you may continue to lead that regiment, and report to me more fully tonight.' 

And so Keith Windham and his troops stood aside to let the vanguard pass. Though he was the only one to know it, he felt his hands on the reins trembling somewhat after the fact, for by Cumberland's side had ridden King George himself, along with his standardbearer, and the Duke of Newcastle, and probably other eminences whom he did not even recognise. 

But by gad, it had been worth it all! Keith fought the smile that wanted to break out on his face. 

Falling into line, the troops took their place, and marched, if not well, then at least not as badly as might have been expected. But then, Keith had spent the march from Bedford having the experienced officers, including himself, correct the ragged lines that the recruits had naturally spread into, until they were tolerably in formation. 

As he rode, savouring his triumph, Keith found himself wishing that he could tell the story to Ewen: indeed, he found himself doing so in his mind, imagining his reaction. And he hoped that Ewen himself, when he rejoined his own army, would be welcomed back, instead of punished. 

Ewen Cameron, on the previous night, had almost lost hope of reaching his own army at all—it seemed the only army he would reach, and that unwillingly, would be the Hanoverian one. His heart sank, for judging from Hawley's treatment of him, his future now seemed rather uncertain. 

'Your name, sir?' said the officer of the detachment of redcoats who had captured him. By his accent, Ewen discerned that he was from the Highlands, or from the southern part of it, at least. 

'Captain Ewen Cameron of Ardroy,' he said. Given his clothing, there was no use in trying to dissemble—he would have to hope that Keith was not the only honourable officer in the Elector's army. 

'Captain John Campbell of Baluachraig. You are my prisoner, sir—will you give me your parole?' 

Ewen relaxed a little at this evidence of the man's honourable intentions, but he did not want to give his parole, at least not unconditionally. For if he could possibly escape, he intended to do so. 'I am sorry to put you to the inconvenience, sir, but I cannot give it at present.' 

'Very well,' said Baluachraig. 'Then I regret that I must have your hands tied, and your horse led by one of my men.' 

Ewen submitted to this, and they set off south-eastwards, as the sun sank to their right, obscured by grey clouds. 

He was glad that Lachlan had made his escape, for, since he was not an officer, he might have been treated worse than Ewen himself would be—and in any case, it would serve no purpose for both of them to be taken captive. That, and not the reason he had given, was why he had bid him ride away, but Lachlan would never have abandoned Ewen in enemy hands had Ewen not managed to convince him it was for Ewen's own good. And he hoped that Lachlan would, after ascertaining where they were heading, report back to Lochiel. 

As to Ewen's present circumstances, they were a consequence of his own actions, but he could not regret what he had done. To abandon Keith to captivity, when Ewen's own actions had, in part, been responsible for landing him there—never! And he could hardly have taken more of his men with him, for then he would have deprived the army of them, and that would have been too much of an abandonment of his duty. They had been reasonably cautious while riding—it had been ill luck that they had come upon the soldiers as they had done. Perhaps they ought to have worn some more neutral cloaks, and not their plaids, but on the other hand, the plaids had come in useful at Luton. And besides, he had no such cloak. 

In any case, it was no sort of use to remonstrate with himself now—done was done. But Ewen very much hoped that he was not to be turned over to Hawley or some other of his ilk. 

He presently found himself brought into a country house, which held some of the Hanoverian officers. 

'Colonel St Clair, sir,' said Baluachraig, 'This is Captain Cameron of the rebels, whom I have taken prisoner—he was on his way south, and came upon us of a sudden, too near at hand to escape. He had a soldier with him, sir, but he unfortunately got away.' 

This was Keith's colonel, then, and Captain Campbell belonged to the Royal Scots! Now that he thought of it, he should perhaps have recognized this from the colour of the facings on his uniform, which was the same as Keith's. Ewen looked at St Clair with renewed interest: he was in his fifties, and looked rather harried. He seemed not to recognise Ewen, and indeed they had never met, for Ewen had waited outside the door when Keith had reported to him in London. 

Questioning Captain Cameron briefly, St Clair determined that he was not willing to part with any information, nor give his parole, and he impatiently turned to Captain Campbell. 'It is late, and I am busy; guard him until tomorrow, and I'll determine then what is to be done with him.' 

Captain Campbell saluted, and Ewen was turned over to his sergeant to be secured. They fed him adequately, and did not ill-treat him, but there was no opportunity of escape, for he was tied up, and guarded besides. Ewen hoped Keith had fared better than he had, tonight—surely he had. 

Philosophically, Ewen decided that he might as well try to sleep, and had just managed to reach that state when a touch on his shoulder woke him. 

In the tent, it was quite dark, and Ewen heard Baluachraig's voice whisper, very softly, 'Captain Cameron? Don't be alarmed—I mean you no harm.' 

'Yes?' Ewen whispered back, coming alert. 

'I and some of my company mean to join the Prince, and your capture seems to me a sign that we should do it tonight. Can you guide us to his army?' 

Ewen's heart leapt in his chest. 'Yes, of course. You would be received most gratefully.' Though he was surprised that a member of such a Whiggish clan should wish to declare for the Prince. 

'Then there is no reason to delay—I have the watch, and the night is dark.' Ewen felt Baluachraig's hands loosing the rope on his wrists, and he sat up and shook out his shoulders. 

Ill luck balanced by good, then! If they could manage to escape, that is—but Ewen did not think of that, for his blood was up now, and, as Baluachraig returned his sword and pistols to him, he felt rather invigorated. 

Baluachraig, with forethought, had arranged it so that those of his men he was sure of were on watch duty, and the others sleeping, and so they made their escape with no real difficulty, though Baluachraig could not take his horse, for fear it would make a noise, and betray them. And neither would they be able to take Ewen's. He would of course accept that price for his freedom, though he was sorry for it, for he had had that mare for years, and she was a good mount. 

The moon would not rise until later in the night, and they made their way as quietly as they could down the Great North Road in the dark, listening for any sign of pursuit. It was bitterly cold, but marching kept them warm. 

When the moon rose, they could make better time, and Ewen could see that the recruits he was bringing to the Prince's army were perhaps fifty in number, all with their own stand of arms, and presumably experienced soldiers. 

Ewen conversed now more freely with Baluachraig, and they determined that they were remote cousins by marriage, for Baluachraig was a cousin of the present Lady Lochiel, born Anne Campbell, the daughter of Sir James Campbell of Auchinbreck. This explained his sympathies, since Auchinbreck was that rare creature: a Campbell with Jacobite convictions. 

'Yes, most of the clan will stand firm in the Whig interest,' said Baluachraig. 'But there are some of us who know our true king. The Breadalbane men, too, were hardly trusted to serve King George outside their own country, though Glenorchy has been too successful at court to follow the example of his father in the '15.' 

'Well, we shall be glad to have you. And you'll meet your cousin in the Prince's camp,' said Ewen, for Lady Lochiel was travelling with the army. 

Ewen had felt at times during the night that he was walking in his sleep, and sometimes even caught himself nodding off on his feet, for he had risen very early the previous day. But now, with the first grey hint of dawn lightening the sky, he felt that he had got his second wind. 

'Our absence must now have been discovered,' said Baluachraig. 'I confess, I have felt my neck crawling these last hours, in case they should have sent dragoons after us. Though, if it had been in the dark, we should have heard them, and they would not have seen us when we got off the road.' 

'And now, I believe we have come too far for them to pursue us,' said Ewen. For he thought they might run into scouts from their own army soon. 

As if his thought had conjured them, a group of horsemen came round the bend of the road. When they saw the redcoats, they hesitated, but Ewen, waving his bonnet in the air, called out to them. 

'Cameron of Ardroy!' exclaimed one of them, and Ewen recognised him as the gentleman from Pitsligo's Horse who had ridden out of London with him, after his release from prison. 

'Yes, indeed!' said Ewen, smiling broadly. 'Let me introduce Captain Campbell and his men, who wish to join us.' 

The scouts questioned them as to the whereabouts of the enemy's army when they had left it, and then rode on. 

Ewen, Baluachraig, and his men reached the village where the Highland division of the army was billeted, now stirring and making preparations for their continued march north. Ewen found the inn where the command was lodged, and brought Baluachraig in with him, while his men waited outside. He found Lochiel indeed, but in company with the Prince and his advisor Strickland. 

'Ewen!' Lochiel said sharply. 'Where on earth have you been?' 

'Your Royal Highness,' said Ewen, bowing to the Prince, then turned to Lochiel. 'You surely know where I went, for you must have read my letter. I was successful in my mission, but I was delayed on my way back, for I was captured by an enemy scouting party.' 

'Delayed!' exclaimed Lochiel, at this understatement from his young cousin. 'Ewen, tell me what happened.' 

'I was lucky enough to be guarded by your cousin by marriage. May I present Captain Campbell of Baluachraig, who, with half his company, has now left the Elector's service and come to serve King James.' 

Baluachraig was welcomed by the Prince, and then sent with Strickland to the Duke of Perth, who was in charge of intelligence, for Baluachraig's knowledge of the movements of the Hanoverian army might prove valuable. 

Ewen said to Lochiel, bowing his head humbly, 'I am ready to submit to your judgment now.' 

'What is this?' asked the Prince in curiosity. 'What has my aide-de-camp done?' 

So Ewen briefly recounted the story, and the Prince exclaimed, 'Upon my word, that's a remarkable tale. My dear Lochiel, I hope you do not mind my impinging on your authority, and saying that I wish to pardon this wayward cousin of yours—though he has been rash and acted against orders, yet his actions were honourable and brave.' 

'If Your Royal Highness wishes to exercise generosity, far be it from me to object,' said Lochiel graciously. 

'My Prince,' said Ewen, rather overwhelmed by this sign of royal favour, for he felt it was quite undeserved—and the soldiers he had brought back, which might also have tipped the balance in his favour, were only due to luck. 'I thank you most humbly, and I am, as always, yours to command.' 

'See that you obey your commands this time, then,' said the Prince, but with a smile to take the sting off. 

He made to leave, but Ewen exclaimed, 'Wait! I am befuddled with lack of sleep, for I have forgotten my most important piece of intelligence.' And he told them of Bradstreet, the spy in their midst. 

Lochiel looked grim. 'That news may well prove to be worth more than those fifty men you brought us.' 

'Well done, Ardroy,' said the Prince. 'You will report to the Duke of Perth—tell no one but him.' 

'Yes, my Prince.' 

And the Prince left, to say a few words of welcome to the tired soldiers who had joined them, and offer them a ride on the baggage carts for today, if they needed it, since they had already marched through the night. For he could be magnanimous when he had the wind in his sails. 

'I did not deserve that,' said Ewen to Lochiel, when he had left. 

'No, you did not,' said Lochiel severely, and Ewen hung his head. 'However, I am glad that you did not suffer the full consequences of your actions.' 

'Has Lachlan MacMartin returned, do you know? He escaped, when I was captured, and I hoped that he would return here, to report.' 

'Not to my knowledge.' 

'Well, I will ask Neil.' Ewen was afraid that Lachlan was still following the Hanoverian army, in the belief that Ewen was still a prisoner. But he could not do much about it now, save to hope that Lachlan would soon come back, and bring Alan's mount with him, too—but at least Alan had stayed behind with the other wounded in London, and would not need it at present. 

'Now, after you have reported to the Duke of Perth, go find your men, for we will march soon. We shall have to find you a spare horse somewhere—consult Archie about it.' 

'Yes, Donald,' said Ewen. 

The army marched within half an hour. When it did, it left behind, hanging from a tree, the body of Dudley Bradstreet, also known as Oliver Williams, also known as countless other names, who would now never carry out another of those fraudulent schemes with which he had, to his great gain, fooled the credulous English public.

But all Ewen could think, when he saw him, was that it might have been Keith Windham who had been summarily hung from a tree, instead of this man, who had surely known that he risked such a fate. Ewen wondered what the man's motivations had been—money, or loyalty to the Elector? 

Several times during that long day Ewen almost fell asleep on his horse, such that he at last asked Neil to keep an eye on him, so that he would not fall off, or let the horse have her own way too much. The spare mount which had been hastily procured for Ewen was a rather fractious and ill-tempered mare, and Ewen could see why she was no one's regular mount. She did not seem well pleased with the weight of the well-built Highlander with whom she had been saddled. 

That evening, Ewen dragged himself through his duties until he could, with his men, finally collapse into the straw in the barn of a country manor, for beds were hard to come by that night. 

His last thought, before he sank into oblivion, was of Keith: no very rational thought, for with his sleep deprivation he was beyond that. It was a sense of longing, of warmth, of the smell of Keith's neck, and the memory of that embrace, which Ewen had at first thought that Keith would not give him. But he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cumberland had about 10,700 men, but some of those were raw recruits, and they were all pretty tired and worn out from the winter marching. The French did indeed plan to send troops across the Channel to support Charles, along the lines of what I've described, but it didn't happen because the winds were unfavourable, and then when they heard that Charles had turned back in Derby, they abandoned the attempt. So I guess having favourable winds for them is a second branching point…I've also fudged the dates a little bit. 
> 
> I've taken some liberties with the movement of the Duke of Bedford's regiment, but who actually cares, right? In actual history, it joined Cumberland earlier, where it was opined that 'neither officers nor men [of the regiment] know what they are about'. These so-called 'noble regiments' sprang up in profusion during the '45, but though well paid and equipped, were mostly useless, because they were so inexperienced. Actually they led to a government crisis, because the army objected to these new regiments that were better paid (and so interfered with recruiting for the regular army) and whose officers demanded to be seen as equal to the regular ones. King George took the army's part, and his ministers all resigned in the middle of the war, until persuaded to come back! 
> 
> The body that actually should have supported the army was the militia, but it could not be summoned locally, I guess to secure state control. The government sent out the order to call out the militia in early September, but it was November before Parliament decided that they would pay for it. So the militia hardly figure in the war...
> 
> I've made up Campbell of Baluachraig, but Lady Lochiel did belong to a Jacobite branch of the Campbells. Actually three of Lochiel's twelve(!!) sisters were also married to Campbells, though I don't know their political opinions.


	6. Part V: The Heron's Flight Is Ended

Dusk fell early on that December evening, so close to the winter solstice. It fell on stubbled fields where the snow had begun to melt again, for there was a thaw, and on the army of the Duke of Cumberland, which kept marching along the Great North Road despite the darkness. The Jacobites were not far behind. 

Ordinarily, armies left the field in winter, when there was not sufficient pasturage for the large number of horses that accompanied a body of troops the size of those on the continent, and war was suspended until the spring. This winter campaign was felt to be unnatural, and it was hard on everyone, but most of all on the common soldiers: they suffered from inadequate, worn-out shoes, and from the cold, when they could not get billets inside, but had to sleep in tents. 

This thaw was not an unmixed blessing, for though it was warmer, it was also wetter. And for the muskets, too, damp was most detrimental. 

Though he had come back to the army in triumph, Keith Windham's mood was soon tempered by that of the soldiers marching wearily about him, and he hoped that they would soon be reinforced by General Wade's army, coming from the north, and meet the Jacobites in a final and decisive battle. For surely that must be Cumberland's aim—the soldiers would not be able to take much further marching, without some rest. 

They reached Huntingdon, where they finally halted. Since it was a larger town, most of the men would be able to sleep under a roof, which was a mercy. 

Keith rather dreaded his report to Cumberland, but in the event, he was not very closely questioned, for the Commander-in-Chief seemed preoccupied, and appeared to consider Keith exonerated by the sequence of events. But he was not to remain long as commander of a regiment, however inferior, for he was assigned back to the Royal Scots, or rather, to the remnants of that once proud regiment. 

'More than half of the Royals were taken prisoner at the first battle for London, and God only knows how many of those have turned,' said St Clair. 'We have had further desertion since—only last night, Captain Campbell absconded with fifty men, curse the man. We are short on officers, for many were captured in the first battle, and I am giving you a mixed company: the rest of Captain Campbell's men, and some of your old ones, who escaped the battle.' 

'Yes, sir,' said Keith. Notwithstanding his ambition of being promoted, he found it almost a relief to be back as a captain, responsible only for a company of men. And he set out to find those men and speak to his sergeants and corporals, finding to his joy that Lamb, that most competent and reliable sergeant, was among them. 

But Keith relaxed too early. Cumberland may have let go of his suspicions, but there was another Hanoverian commander who had not forgotten the events in Luton, and in London, too. 

As he was on his way back from where his men were billeted, he heard a voice behind him. 'Captain Windham!' 

He turned, with a sinking feeling. Keith could never look upon Lieutenant-General Hawley without remembering that he had very nearly had Ewen shot. But he tried to keep his face and voice non-committal. 'Yes, sir?' 

'You are back, I find.' Hawley's gaze was sharp. 'And Cumberland has accepted your explanations.' 

'Yes, sir.' 

Hawley's eyes narrowed. 'For my part, I should like some further demonstration of your loyalty—I remember too well your actions on behalf of that rebel in London.' 

'You need not fear for my loyalty, sir.' 

'Good!' said Hawley briskly. 'Then you'll not object to shooting a rebel for me now?' 

Keith's mind threw up a horrible vision: that Ewen had yet again been captured, and that he would be asked to shoot him. His heart pounded in fear—surely Ewen was safe? 

He tried to clear his head, and said carefully, 'Sir, I do not object to punishments which are meted out after due legal process, which conform to the law and to the international code of war.' 

'How conscientious of you. Well, you should have no objection to shooting this one, then: he is a deserter, who has been caught sneaking away, possibly to join the rebels. He was sentenced to death by the regimental court martial.' 

'I do not object, sir,' said Keith curtly, for what else could he say? In truth he had no wish to be involved in Hawley's punishments, but he was duty-bound to obey any lawful command from his superiors, at least if they were not dishonourable. And he was exceedingly relieved that the prisoner was not Ewen. 

'Come along, then.' 

They were near the market square of the town, which was now occupied by Hawley's dragoons and by soldiers of several other regiments, and the general strode with long steps to where a man stood, guarded by two of the dragoons. In the darkness, the lanterns carried by the soldiers lit a prisoner guarded by two men. 

Keith hung back, asking Hawley's aide-de-camp in a low voice, 'Was the verdict of the court-martial unanimous, sir?' 

'Yes, sir, it was,' said the aide-de-camp, and Keith felt a little easier in his mind—this was not a lawless stunt, as in London, then. 

One might be excused, when reading the Articles of War, or, for that matter, the penal code of England, for thinking that men were executed in large numbers every day. This was not the case, for though this ultimate punishment was, on paper, to be meted out for countless crimes, in practice, the punishment was often more lenient, and of those sentenced to die, many were reprieved. 

Keith was not a flogging captain, and indeed, held such officers in some measure of contempt, as unable to effect discipline through other means. He had never personally executed a deserter before, though he had seen it done, and had sat in court-martials that had reached that verdict. He could see the cold logic of it in this case: in their desperate circumstances, the temptation to desert must be strong, for those inclined to it, and this execution was meant as an example and a deterrent to that most ruinous tendency to abandon one's sworn duty. 

Very well, then, he would do it. 

Under Hawley's watching eyes, and the surrounding soldiers', Keith strode up to the deserter. He was a powerful man, not tall, but broad and strong, and his eyes, under his red hair, met Keith's with a sullen defiance. There was a bruise on his cheek, presumably from his capture. 

'What is your name, sir?' asked Keith. 

'Thomas Moodie, frae Ayrshire,' he said, in broad Scots. 

'Have you any last request?' said Keith. 

The deserter hesitated, then said, 'Gin A hud pen and peper, A wald write tae ma mither.'

Keith took out his pocket-book, and, tearing out a page from it, he handed it to the prisoner, along with a pencil. Hawley gave a derisive snort, and Keith, turning to him, said, 'You have given me this task, sir; let me then perform it as I see fit.'

He waited until the deserter had finished writing, and folded the paper, then said, 'If you write the directions on it, I'll see that it reaches her.' 

'Thank you,' the man muttered. 

'Do you wish me to send for the chaplain?' Keith said. 

The man's jaw set. 'I dinnae hold wi thon creed.' 

'Very well,' Keith said. The chaplain was of course an Anglican priest, and Keith supposed that the deserter must be a Dissenter of some sort. 

The firing squad were standing by, and Keith ordered them to make ready, and the man to stand against the stone wall of the house. As he stood there, his jaw clenched and his chin rose in a gesture of defiance that, in a flash of memory, pierced Keith's heart with the image of Ewen, standing before the firing squad in London. Though, in truth, he was not at all like Ewen, save for the colour of his hair, and the gesture was not very like, either. 

Keith clenched his own jaw, but tried to let his face remain impassive. It must be done. 

As the man closed his eyes and moved his lips, perhaps in prayer, Keith gave the order, and watched as it was executed. 

Afterwards, he turned to Hawley, and said, his voice expressionless, 'Have you further orders for me, sir?' 

'No, Captain,' said Hawley. At that moment Keith hated him, for he could see that the man had enjoyed the scene he had just witnessed, and that this was most likely the reason he had done it, rather than any wish to reassure himself that Keith was not a spy. 

'May I be excused, then, sir?' 

'Go to your duties, Captain Windham.' Hawley waved him off. 

The stories that Keith had heard of Henry Hawley must be anything but exaggerated. By gad, if he had had such a commanding officer, he should have exchanged for another regiment! He was lucky in serving under St Clair—but then, there could be no others as notorious as Hawley. 

Keith had secured a billet that night in an inn, but beds were in short supply, so he slept on a mattress on the floor, in a room crammed full of other officers. But tired as he was, he could not sleep, for the face of the man he had executed haunted him. It was the first time he had killed a man in cold blood, rather than in the heat of battle, and it did no good to tell himself that the man would have died regardless, for he had been the one to give the order. As a military officer, ordering the execution of a deserter was a part of his duties, and he wondered if he would have been as disturbed by it, before he had met Ewen. Perhaps not. Perhaps he had grown soft, and inclined to sympathise with rebels. 

But no—it could surely be no fault to feel compassion, and if his feelings for Ewen had strengthened that emotion in him, he could not regret that! 

Keith turned over in his bed, not for the first time, and glared in the dark at the man over by the window, who was snoring, and not quietly. But it was not the noise which was keeping him awake, and he knew it. 

Keith himself had committed capital crimes, in his relations with men, and, though convictions for sodomy were not common, given the difficulty of obtaining evidence, he might well have been hanged for it. So perhaps he was nothing but a hypocrite, in ordering another man killed. He knew, too, that had it been Ewen standing there by the wall, he could never have done it, no matter if he had been condemned by a court of law. 

Oh, to hell with all this soul-searching—it served no purpose! He must sleep. Keith rolled over on his back again, and grimly began counting his breaths, suppressing with ruthless determination any stray thoughts that might keep him awake. 

While Keith Windham lay sleepless, Lachlan MacMartin sought out the camp fires of the sentries, and with all the skills that he had learnt while hunting and tracking, crept close enough to listen to the talk of the soldiers round the fires. For he was desperate to find out what had befallen his foster-brother, if he could. 

And so Lachlan heard the captain of the watch telling his sergeant the latest gossip: that Captain Windham, who had been thrown in gaol in Luton, and returned in triumph with the Duke of Bedford's regiment in tow, had been forced by Hawley to shoot a rebel, to prove his loyalty. Some red-haired Scotsman, it had been, he added. 

Lachlan clenched his teeth, to prevent his cry of pain from escaping, for he felt as though his soul had died within him. That black-hearted traitor, that—but he could find no words harsh enough to describe the English captain, whom Mac 'ic Ailein had invited into Ardroy and with whom he had broken bread. And he had ridden to Luton to save him—it was that very journey which had led to him being taken prisoner, too, so this Windham was to blame twice over! 

After such a show of friendship, that Windham could have looked Ewen in the eye and shot him! It was beyond all Lachlan could imagine—but the Englishman must care only for his place in the army. 

But had he not apprehended some such tragedy from the very first, when his father told him what he had seen? After all, such prophecies often foretold of death. Lachlan had done his best to stop it, by killing the heron; but that, as Mac 'ic Ailein had predicted, had not prevented the meeting. And now it had come to its bitter end. 

Lachlan very carefully retreated, for he could not be seen and captured now. Not for his own sake, for he no longer much cared if he lived or died, or even whether Prince Charles won the crown or not. He cared only that the black-hearted Englishman should die for what he had done, and when he had retreated far enough from the sentry fires, he took out his _biodag_ and swore on the iron that he would avenge his foster-brother by killing his murderer. 

The next day dawned with a low sky hanging over the flat landscape, threatening rain, and as the Hanoverian army made ready to march, the air was suffused with a drizzle that did not so much fall, as hang in the air in the form of a miserable and raw fog. 

But that afternoon they met at last with General Wade's army, which had made its way down from northern England. They were weary and foot-sore, and had been plagued by desertion, for in the Tyne Gap, when Wade was still trying to catch up with the Jacobite army on its way south on the other side of the Pennines, they had been caught in the snow and some had even died of the cold. They had with them also the Dutch troops that had been made available for hire, according to treaty, to defend the Hanoverian succession. 

The Jacobites now availed themselves of the billets in Huntingdon that the Hanoverians had left only that morning, and the Hanoverian commanders scouted the area nearby, between Huntingdon and Peterborough, in search of a suitable battle ground, which was not difficult to find on the flat ground near the fens. Tomorrow would be the final reckoning. 

The next morning, as Captain Windham stood with his company on the field in order of battle, he reflected grimly that when he had wished for civilised warfare on level ground, such as he had experienced in Flanders, he had not expected it to take place in the heart of England. With all his heart, he wished that he was back in the Highlands, and that the war had never gone further than a few skirmishes among those steep mountains. There were, after all, much worse fates than enduring boredom while shut up in a fort. 

The field seemed as well chosen as it might be, Keith thought, with their flank anchored by a large barn, but he was less sanguine about the weather, which was still wet, and about the troops. They were all of them weary, and after two defeats (or three, counting the Battle of Corryarrick) and problems with desertion, morale was not good. 

It was not improved by the messenger sent by the commander of the French troops, politely pointing out that the four Dutch regiments could not, by treaty, be used in battle against the French. And the Hessian troops which had been sent for from Flanders would not arrive in time. 

But, Keith thought grimly, he would do his duty, and he was as sure of his men as he could be. 

In the approaching Jacobite army, Ewen Cameron was as determined to do his, but with far more optimism. His only concern was that he still did know know Lachlan's whereabouts, and he hoped that he had not been captured, or killed. And Keith, of course, was always in his mind. 

In the event, they did not meet in the battle, but Ewen did see him, in an image that only fully made sense to him afterwards. Truly, Ewen thought he was not meant for command above the level of captain, for he never could keep the whole of the battle in his mind, when it happened: he only knew the sword in his hand, as an extension of himself, and the men immediately about him: his enemies, who were trying to kill him, and his own men, whom he must lead and protect. The smell of gunpowder was sharp in his nose. And the noise of the muskets and the guns—it was incredible, and at one point Archie was shouting at him, at the top of his voice, and it was only from his pointing hand that Ewen understood what he was to do. 

And once in that confusing melee he saw Keith, and as by a flash recognised him, though he ought to have been only one redcoat in a thousand: he was urging his men through a breach in the line, towards the standard of the Elector, which was hard pressed by the MacDonalds and the Frasers. Ewen thought their eyes met; the contact went through him like a shock, and Keith, doing his utmost to reach his King's standard, felt it also. 

Then it was past, and Ewen was catching a bayonet-thrust with his targe, with no room in his mind for anything but the next sword-stroke, and the next, and Neil was at his side, swinging his own sword, though the man on his other side had fallen. 

Ewen raised his voice in the Cameron cry, to urge his men on, for he could see the redcoat line in front of him waver. And then it broke, and fell back before them. 

Some while later, Ewen stood with no more enemies before him. He dashed the rain out of his eyes and looked round, and for the briefest moment was alarmed by the redcoats on his left flank, before he saw the white armbands of the Royal Écossais. Taking off his bonnet, he wrung it out, so that it would keep the rain from his eyes better. 

'Mac 'ic Ailein, you are bleeding,' said Neil. 

Ewen was still hot with the exhilaration of the battle, and hardly felt the pain. 'So are you. Or is that someone else's blood?' 

'I don't know, but we're both alive.' Neil grinned at him. 

'Yes. Let us find the wounded among our men, and look for Lochiel, and see what orders he has for us.' 

They found that the battle was over, but Lochiel was among the wounded, with Archie tending to him. 

'Is it serious?' Ewen burst out. 

'He will live, God willing, but this is not a scratch, either,' said Archie tersely. 

'Have you orders for us? I see that we have won, but I have no notion how the battle went, save for the small part of it that I saw. And I could hardly recount that, either.' 

'Donald, you may tell him—it's a good distraction from the pain,' said Archie. 

Lochiel said, his face quite pale but his voice steady, 'We have carried the day. The weather was in our favour, for it was in the enemy's faces, and their muskets would not fire as well in the damp—though ours were affected, as well. Many of them have surrendered. But we should have liked to capture the Elector, and make him and his heir surrender the throne, and that we could not do: the battle was fierce, but I must own that his troops fought bravely, and would not let us take him. They have retreated, such of them as are left to him, and our men, being too tired, cannot follow today. Oh, for a good strong regiment of horse!' 

Here, he hissed in a breath and clenched his teeth as Archie, with a triumphant grunt, brought forth the scrap of fabric from his wound. Ewen politely turned away his gaze. 

He saw again in his mind's eye Keith, in the midst of battle, his whole figure alight with purpose, and, though he was an enemy, could not help feeling pride in him. 

'And now you, _Eoghain_ ,' said Archie. 

'I am not—' Ewen began, but Archie would have none of it. 

Ewen felt the sticky blood as Archie investigated his side, and now it stung. 

'A musket-ball has grazed your side,' announced Archie, 'but 'tis not serious, and if we bandage it, you may continue in your duties—but come to me tomorrow, so that I may look at it. When you have brought in all your wounded, attend the Prince.' 

Ewen did. He was in conference with Lord George Murray and some of the other commanders, as well as some important supporters who had come with them from London. Their chief concern was how to capture the Elector, in order that he should be persuaded to abdicate the throne—this would decisively end the war, and help convince his supporters that they must accept King James. In the 1688 Revolution, Prince Charles' grandfather had never abdicated, which made the situation most unclear, with both sides claiming that they were in the right. 

But, however, he must be captured first. The council did not seriously believe that he meant to continue the campaign now, after this defeat, and in the midst of winter—rather, he must intend to escape to Hanover, and there, if he did not give up, try to raise interest and new troops for an attempt next year. 

Ewen stood behind the Prince, ready to carry despatches should there be any need, but he only listened to the council's deliberations with half an ear, for his thoughts were with Keith. Where was he now? Perhaps he might have been taken prisoner, but Ewen thought it most likely that he was with the Elector's remaining troops. If he had not died, that is, but Ewen was trying with all his might not to think about that possibility. 

The council concluded that they would put together forces to go east to search the coast, to find and capture the Elector, if they could. They would not send the French, for it might smack of an occupying force—no, besides what horse they had, it would be best to send the Manchester Regiment, as being English troops. But, despite them being English, perhaps not the spontaneously formed Kent Regiment, or, as it was informally called, the Smugglers' Regiment—five hundred men, with motley but effective equipment, who had come up with the French—for they perhaps had not the requisite discipline. 

Since Lochiel was injured and not there to speak for them, Ewen announced that he was sure the Camerons would be glad to join the search. 

And after the council, Ewen went to find those of his clansmen who were fresh enough to volunteer for this task, first obtaining Archie's approval of it, since he did not wish to disturb Lochiel in his rest. But when he approached Neil, to hear his account of the condition of the Ardroy men, his eldest foster-brother's first words threw all thoughts of it from his mind. 

'I have had a letter from Lachlan,' said Neil grimly in Gaelic. 

'You have? What does it say?' exclaimed Ewen. 

'He has sent it by some men of the Atholl Brigade that he met. Read it, Mac 'ic Ailein.' And Neil thrust the ragged piece of paper, with its rather atrociously spelled Gaelic, into his hands. For Lachlan, since he was of an age with Ewen, had learnt to read and write with him, though he was not drilled in it as thoroughly as Ewen had been. 

Ewen read the letter. 'He thinks that I am dead? And that Captain Windham has killed me? How on earth has such a story got about? I was afraid that Lachlan was still following the Elector's army, thinking I was a prisoner there, but…'

He shook his head, perplexed, but when he read on, the question of how Lachlan had come to believe such a story became less pressing. In alarm, Ewen said, 'Neil, he means to avenge my death on Captain Windham. That must not happen—Windham has saved my life, and if he is killed on my account—oh, I could not stand it!' 

He could not, of course, show the true depth of his feelings, but Neil saw enough, and he put a hand on his foster-brother's arm. 'We must find Lachlan and stop him, then. And not only for Captain Windham's sake, but for his own. He could be shot by the redcoats, trailing after them like that.' 

Ewen took a deep breath, attempting to calm down. 'Yes. Well, we are going after the redcoats regardless, for I have volunteered those of the Camerons who are fresh enough to join in the hunt for the Elector and his son. Will you come?' 

'Yes, of course,' said Neil simply. 

_'Tapadh leat, a bhràthair.'_ Ewen clasped his arm, grateful for his steady presence. But a thought struck him. 'Why did not Lachlan come here, to you, instead of sending a letter?' 

Neil frowned. 'I believe,' he said slowly, 'that he was afraid that Lochiel or Archie would decide that his duty should lie with the army, rather than with avenging you.' 

Ewen sighed. 'Yes, I believe you are right. Ah, what a curst tangle this is…' 

And he recalled his duty, and went to consult the other Cameron officers about volunteers. 

But that night, as they lay sleeping, Neil was woken by the low, broken utterances Ewen made in his sleep, as he dreamed. He could not tell what he said, for he was mumbling in English, but he heard Lachlan's name, and the name Keith. And no matter that Ewen was his chieftain, and taller than him by about a foot, still Neil remembered him as a small boy, eight years younger than him, when he had likewise talked in his sleep, and Neil had comforted him. He leaned over and took hold of his shoulder, shaking him a little, though not enough to wake him. And Ewen turned over, and subsided.

* * *

The next morning, awake and in command of himself once more, Ewen set off for the coast along with a motley assortment of other Jacobite forces, including about a hundred of the Camerons, with Ewen as their captain. He had told the other commanders of his foster-brother, and asked them to tell him that Ewen was alive, should they come across him. 

Meanwhile, Keith Windham was, as Ewen had surmised, with the last hard kernel of King George's forces, those who were utterly loyal to the Hanoverian succession and had, besides, had luck and determination enough in the battle to be able to get away. 

Captain Windham's bravery during the battle had not gone unnoticed: though his company had been too late to save the Duke of Cumberland, who had been cut down during the fierce fighting against the MacDonalds and Frasers, he had come in time to stem the tide, and allow other reinforcements to reach them, and King George and Crown Prince Frederick had survived. 

During their retreat, the King had personally commended Keith for his bravery, which overwhelmed him enough that he became somewhat tongue-tied, and could only get out something along the lines that he was merely doing his duty. 

When they had retreated far enough that they were certain of the lack of immediate pursuit, they paused, and the commanders conferred. They must head to the coast, and hope to find a loyal Navy ship to take them to Flanders, and thence go to Hanover, to gather strength. But this strategy was so obvious that they must assume that the Jacobites would grasp it, and the larger towns, such as King's Lynn, would surely be searched. The coastline, however, was long, and their enemies could hardly search the whole length of it at once. 

Between them and the coast lay the Fens: flat, wet, and agriculturally unproductive land, which, in the name of progress, would be drained and enclosed not far in the future, increasing production but also depriving the local villagers of much of their livelihood from fishing and fowling. But for now, nature still held sway over most of the fens, which were a home to uncountable wetland birds, and to swarms of mosquitoes in the summer. It was now winter, but unless they froze solid, these lands were not easily passable to those who did not know them—many were the horses and wagons that had got bogged down and been lost, when their owners did not have local guides, or ignored their advice.

Such guides were accordingly obtained, but in the darkness, they could not get far, and had to stop for the night in a small village, which was filled to bursting with the King's men. 

Early the next morning, they set out again, instructing their guides to take them towards some secluded beach where they might send out the local fishing vessels to find them a Navy ship. 

Lachlan MacMartin well knew the dangers of boggy ground, though he was not familiar with these southern fens. His skills in tracking stood him in good stead: on the partially snow-covered ground, the tracks of the horses and men that he was following stood out clear, and he knew that the English officer he sought was among them, for he had seen him there during the retreat. 

But, as further snow began to fall, the tracks were obscured for those Jacobite forces attempting to follow in the morning, and they were forced to split up. 

Ewen, with his Camerons and some of Pitsligo's Horse, followed the guide they had hired in one of the villages, out towards the coast. 

What a land this was: Ewen had never seen anything so flat, and he found it very strange. The fens stretched unbroken to the horizon, with patches of white snow on the firmer ground, and black boggy water where the flakes of snow fell only to disappear without a trace, as they themselves would do, should they step into it. The wind soughed in the reed beds, dry and rattling now in winter, where in summer they would stretch like a green, undulating sea, where the reed bunting and sedge warbler sang and had their nests. 

And that same wind had nothing to break its force, as it swept cold across the flat expanse of the fens from the north. Ewen drew his plaid closer about himself. But there were signs of life here, as well: a small flock of mallards swam leisurely in the mere to their left, uncaring of the cold wind. 

As he rode, Ewen wondered, for the hundredth time, where Keith and Lachlan were. Lachlan's letter had not said where he was going, but he would have to assume that Lachlan, like himself, was chasing after the Elector's men. He knew that Lachlan was an excellent tracker, for they had learnt to hunt together. 

Before leaving, Ewen had made sure that Keith was not among the captured officers. It would have been impossible for him similarly to assure himself that Keith was not among the many who lay dead on the battlefield; but though it was perhaps sentimental of him, Ewen almost believed he would know it, if Keith had fallen in the battle. 

They had not spoken, when they met in Luton, of the consequences to either of them, depending on the outcome of the war, but only made a pact to meet again, when it was over. If he could only find Lachlan and explain the misunderstanding, Ewen knew that Keith would face no danger, if he only surrendered—but would he do so? No, that was not likely. And neither would Ewen have abandoned his Prince, had their situations been reversed. 

Ewen sighed. Did Keith then intend to follow the Elector across the sea, to Hanover? If he thought his duty demanded it, he might. But oh, how Ewen wished he would stay! 

By evening, they had reached the village of Wisbech, and lodged there for the night. The following morning, they would spread out to scout the beaches, and, if they found the Hanoverians, would send word for reinforcements. 

Two days later, in the early morning, Keith Windham had saddled and mounted Steady. A damp fog was swirling round the horse's hooves as they rode down the track towards the beach where they waited for word of a Navy ship, from the fishermen they had sent out to look for one. 

The fog obscured the surrounding land, so that he could see only the path before him, and whatever glimpses the shifting white would allow him. Not, thought Keith, that the prospect that was revealed to him through the rents in the fog was much to see: in the summer, perhaps, it might be verdant, but now it was a vista rendered in a muted and dirty palette, with the pale ochres and browns of the reeds and mudflats, frosted with the occasional white of snow and ice. Somewhere in the fog, a bird called. 

Lachlan MacMartin, who had been waiting for just such an opportunity, left his hiding-place and followed. The fog was a boon to him, for it let him follow his quarry more closely. Lachlan had taken a musket and cartridges from the battlefield, and, a few times during the last few days, he might perhaps have used it, with a reasonable chance of hitting his target. But he had not been sure of it, and since Captain Windham was not alone, he might not have got a second chance, if he had missed. Lachlan would have preferred to use his dirk, or his sword, rather than the impersonal bullet of a musket—indeed, he wanted very much that Ewen's murderer should know why he died—but he might not be able to get so close, and he would not let this preference interfere with what must be done. 

Lachlan paused, to tear a cartridge with his teeth and pour the black powder into the pan, and ram the bullet and wad down the barrel, so as to be ready. 

As Keith came to the beach, the sun rose above the horizon. The whiteness of the shifting fog intensified, and, where the sun's rays penetrated, details leaped out: the dark heaps of seaweed against the pale sand, and the flock of small grey wading birds standing at the water's edge, their feathers patiently fluffed against the cold. In his nose was the salty and raw smell of the sea. 

No boats had come in, save for the ones which were pulled up on the sand already. Very well, he would wait, then, for he was assigned the watch until noon. Keith dismounted, heading for a small fisherman's hut farther along the beach, where nets and lines were kept, and tied Steady to a pole hammered into the sand, to secure boats with. 

Ewen had reconnoitred the beach, sending his companion to explore the north part of it. Seeing the approach of the redcoat, he had hidden in the little fisherman's hut to wait for him to come nearer, at which he had meant to hold him at pistol-point and take him prisoner, for surely he must know where the Elector was. But as the redcoat came closer, he saw the man's face, which the fog had previously hidden from him, and his breath caught in his throat. 

He could only stand there and watch, and as Keith approached, Ewen could no longer doubt that Fate had meant them to meet, if indeed he had had any doubts left. And this was their last fated meeting, by the water—with a sudden chill, he feared that after this, they would meet no more. 

'Keith,' he whispered, and as Keith came close enough to see him standing inside the door of the hut, he also grew still. 

'Ewen,' he breathed, in wonder. He approached the door, but they did not touch. Both of them could guess the other's purpose in coming to this beach, and they both struggled to resolve their actions—how to remain true to the other, and yet not betray their duty. 

But Ewen had something more urgent to convey. 'Keith, I must warn you—'

And then he heard a sound, faint but unmistakable: the lock of a musket being pulled back. Ewen threw himself forward without thinking, to knock Keith out of the way, or perhaps to show himself to Lachlan, so that he would not shoot. 

But Lachlan had already pulled the trigger, and the shot rang out, shockingly loud on the silent beach. And two men now lay on the sand: the one for whom the bullet had been intended, knocked out of the way by Ewen's shove, and the one who had been shot in his place. 

'Ewen!' Keith cried, and rushed to his side, kneeling on the sand. 

Perhaps it had only grazed him, or taken him in the shoulder—but no, there was blood on his chest, and when Keith tugged the plaid aside, it looked impossibly bright on his white shirt, and oh! there was so much of it. Keith put his hands on the wound, to somehow stem the tide. He _must_ —it was impossible that—

'Keith,' Ewen got out. 'I was...too late...' 

And now here was Lachlan, running up with the musket in his hand. Keith looked at him uncomprehendingly, for nothing in the world made sense to him. Why should Lachlan—?

'I thought you—he—' Lachlan began desperately, in Gaelic, but could not finish the sentence. 'Ah, Mac 'ic Ailein! My brother!' 

'I know...what you thought,' said Ewen. 'Lachlan. I forgive you.' 

Lachlan shook his head, and his face twisted with pain. 'But I do not forgive myself. I cannot.' 

Taking Ewen's hand in his one last time, to press it hard, Lachlan drew his dirk, and falling upon it, he gave that life which he would so gladly have given to save his foster-brother, though it could no longer do so. 

'What? What has happened?' Keith exclaimed, for of course he had not understood their speech, though he had grasped that he himself must have been the intended target of the attack. 

Keith's hands were warm and sticky with the blood that welled between his fingers, though he could feel Ewen still drawing breath, as his chest rose and fell. 

'Lachlan—he thought that I was dead...and that you had killed me.' 

'That I had killed you?' Keith said. 'How—' 

'I was captured after Luton...but escaped. Lachlan must have...followed your army, and heard some story.' 

Suddenly Keith saw, in a flash, how it must have happened: the red-haired deserter whom Hawley had made him execute. Grimly, he said, 'I think I know how he heard it. But no time for that now: Ewen, you will _not_ die, do you hear me? Let me make you a bandage, and—'

Ewen coughed, and with a chill in his heart, Keith saw the bright blood on his lips. 

'No!' he cried, in denial. But he had seen it before, on the battlefield, and knew that Ewen could not have far to go: the bullet must have pierced his lung. 

Ewen lay looking up at him, and his eyes, so very blue, looked almost compassionate. 'Keith...you know that I will.' He was gasping for breath now. 

'Ewen!' Keith's voice was hoarse and unsteady. He could not take his hands from the wound, though he now knew it did no good, but he leaned his head down, to kiss Ewen's lips, though they were bloody. 

'I love you,' said Keith desperately, for he must say it. 'Ewen, I love you. I love you.' He could not seem to stop saying it. 

'I know it,' said Ewen. 'Keith. I love you, too.' 

He seemed to choke a little, and Keith could not help him, but only watch as he struggled to breathe. 'I have done you...a great service,' he got out. 

Keith understood him. 'In saving my life, yes, and caused me a bitter grief,' he finished grimly, so that Ewen would not have to. 'Oh, that prophecy, it can go to hell!' 

'I do not...wish to die,' Ewen managed, his voice faint now. 'But if I must...I would gladly do it...for you. Keith.' 

Keith's name on his lips was the last word he spoke, for the end came mercifully quick. Keith only had to watch him struggle laboriously for breath for a while more, while their eyes never left each other. 

And then he breathed no more. 

Keith crumpled to the sand, his own breath coming in harsh gasps, the sobs torn from him as he clung to Ewen's body. He could not accept it—that everything he had so loved about him: his warm, open generosity, the vitality in his strong body, was gone. 

Helpless, undignified tears ran down Keith's face, and his nose closed up, and still he could not stop. He stroked Ewen's hair, bright and shining, and kissed his cheek, his forehead, still warm with the life that had so recently left him. And then he lay down beside him, as they had never lain down together in life, and held him close, tucking his face into Ewen's neck. 

He lay so, until, taking Ewen's hand in his, he felt that it had grown cold. Keith sat up, feeling as if bereft a second time, for it was futile to try any longer to deny the bleakness of reality. 

He looked at Lachlan's body, lying still a few feet away. In death, he had fallen to one side, and an inch or so of the bright blade of his dirk was still visible, for not all of its length had been needed to take his life. It would be perfectly serviceable, if he drew it out. Or, if he preferred it, he had his pistols. 

He contemplated the idea for a moment, and it seemed to him a blessed relief to follow Ewen into death. But no—Keith could not take the road that Lachlan had taken, for he could not throw away that for which Ewen had paid so impossibly dear a price. 

He looked round, emerging for a moment from his private world of pain. A short distance away, Steady was standing patiently, and farther along the beach, the shore birds still stood. The fog had lifted. 

And out on the sea, Keith saw a small boat, still far away, but clearly coming towards him. 

For a moment he resented and rejected it bitterly—how could the world demand anything of him now, when life had so lost its meaning? But some habit made him straighten, in anticipation of doing his duty. 

Keith went down to the waterline, and washed his hands in it, watching the blood come loose and swirl out in the water; then he dashed the cold sea-water in his face. He felt the salt of it sting his eyes, and blew his nose. 

It felt abruptly unreal to him that it might be said that the entire point of his profession was to kill people, for he had never felt the full impact of death before. 

He looked up; the boat was closer. 

Helplessly, Keith turned to look at Ewen's body, and at Lachlan's. There was no time to bury them—what was he to do? Hesitating, he at last lifted Ewen's body under the arms, and, cushioning Ewen's head against his front, for he could not bear it to hang down, he pulled him behind the hut. As he did so, tears began to trickle again from his eyes, as though he were some leaky vessel. He returned for Lachlan's body. 

Keith fell to his knees again—was he to have nothing to remember Ewen by? There were memories enough in his heart, to be sure, that were indelibly imprinted there, but he wished he could have something more tangible. He stroked Ewen's hair again, but felt, perhaps irrationally, that cutting off a piece of it would be to mutilate his body even further, and could not bring himself to do it. Finally, he took out his pocket-knife and cut off a piece of the tartan fabric of his plaid, and tucked it in his chest pocket. 

'Farewell, my dearest heart,' he murmured, in a choked voice, and leant down to kiss Ewen's forehead one last time. 

Then he stood up, and, savagely wiping the tears from his eyes, Keith looked towards the approaching boat. 

With a wrench that felt as though it broke something inside him, Captain Windham kept his face impassive as he took the report from the midshipman who had been sent on the tender that had rowed in to the beach. It was just what they had hoped for: a loyal Navy ship, which could take King George and his associates to the Low Countries, though many of his troops would have to remain behind, and hope that they might, at some future time, rally to his banner again. 

Only a day ago, Keith would have felt triumph at being the bearer of such good news, but now, his heart was cold within him, even as he gave the King his report. For his brave and faithful service, he was invited to join King George in Hanover; but even as he accepted, expressing all the gratification that the occasion demanded, not even this high honour was enough to move his heart more than to the knowledge that he no doubt ought to feel something. 

In the clamour of the departure, Keith found the time to search out the vicar of the little village. He found him at home in the vicarage, and Keith, shown into his study, found an elderly man engaged with his books. 

'Mr Thurman,' he said. 'My name is Captain Keith Windham. I beg your pardon for intruding—my time is short. On the beach, behind the little fishermen's hut, lie the bodies of two soldiers of the Jacobite army. They were good men, and devout Episcopalians, and I would be very much obliged to you if you would see to it that they are buried—I know that they would wish to rest in consecrated ground.' He took out a sum of money. 'I hope this may be enough to pay for their funerals, sir.' 

The old vicar regarded him keenly, the wrinkles round his eyes showing as he squinted at Keith. 'They were your enemies, captain? Did you kill them?' 

'No, sir, I did not kill them. They were my enemies, in the sense that they fought for the other side. But I knew them, and know that they were good men, and they...died through misfortune, and misunderstanding. I cannot tell you more.' Keith felt his face grow even more wooden, though his eyes, did he but know it, told something of the pain that he felt. 

In fact Lachlan had taken his own life and should not, by the Church's tenets, lie in consecrated ground; but Keith did not say that—Ewen had forgiven him, and that was good enough for Keith. Somehow he did not want Ewen to rest alone here, so far from his home. 

'I'll see to it, then,' the vicar promised, and took the proffered money. 'God bless you, my son.' 

And Keith wished that he had something of Ewen's faith, that he could find solace in such words, or by the belief that Ewen was now in heaven, and they might someday meet again in the afterlife. But such things felt to him like a child's grasping for comfort, in an attempt to deny the bleakness of reality. 

'Thank you, Reverend,' said Keith, and bowed. 

And so it was that Ewen Cameron's body rested by his foster-brother's side, in the little parish graveyard of a village by the Wash. He was not the only Highlander to give his life in the war: indeed, he had always known that it was a price that he might have to pay for following the call of duty and honour. But, though he had helped to put King James on the throne, he had not died for such a cause: Ewen Cameron had died for love, and, though he had acted without thought, would have made the same choice again with open eyes, if by that means he might save Keith Windham's life. 

Ewen Cameron was buried in winter, in the cold hard earth, and his body rested there forever more. But when many of the clansmen who yet lived had made their way home to the Highlands by the road of the living, his spirit perhaps made its way home to his beloved Ardroy by another road. 

In March, when the Fens would wake up with the spring and new shoots of green rushes push their way up from the water, the golden plovers, which wintered in the wetlands, would feel anew the longing for the moors and hills of the Highlands. They would gather in restless flocks, before taking flight for the north. 

And the common sandpipers, which no lochan in Scotland is without, would pause briefly for a rest on the beach on their long journey from the south. The couple which had nested every year by the shores of Loch na h-Iolaire would faithfully return there, to lay new eggs by that shore which Ewen Cameron had loved more than any place on earth. 

And, perhaps, his spirit would fly with them, to find there some measure of peace. The sandpipers would leave with the summer, but, like the grey heron that had found its way to nest again on the islet in the loch, he would stay.


	7. Epilogue: Harbour of Sorrow

As Keith lay in his cot that night on the HMS _Swallow_ , crammed into a tiny cabin with three other officers, he struggled to accept, or even comprehend, the events of the morning. 

He had of course known that their intentions to meet again after the war might never be fulfilled. They were both of them soldiers, and a stray bullet or bayonet-thrust might have killed Ewen Cameron, or himself, in any of the battles of the war; and should Ewen have died in that way, he would not have been able to say farewell to him. But it was, thought Keith bitterly, too much to ask for that he should be grateful for that opportunity. 

In the darkness, Keith took out the little scrap of tartan cloth that was the only thing he had of Ewen, and held it to his face. As he drew in the scent of it, it brought back the last time they had embraced, in the prison cell in Luton, and Keith felt yet again the tears beginning to leak from his eyes. He turned his face into his pillow, and let them come—indeed, he scarcely had a choice. 

All day, he had kept that iron mask of self-control, but he must now pay the cost for it. Like most other men of his day, Keith Windham had scorned tears as being weak and womanish, but in the magnitude of his present pain, he could not care less about such judgements. And with the creaking of the ship, and the wind in the rigging above, no one would hear his ragged breathing. 

There were so many things that they had never done, and would now never do: they had never slept in a bed together, never been completely naked together, never been without the restraint of weighing their words, in the knowledge that they were on opposite sides of the war. 

Keith lay sleepless for what felt like hours to him, and when in the exhaustion of his emotion he at last drifted into slumber, it was with the imagined warmth of Ewen curled about him, for the mind grasped after what comfort it could, though when he woke he would know it could not last. 

The next day saw as fine weather as could be expected for the end of December, and the wind sped them towards the Low Countries. Keith believed that his grim demeanour did not stand out overmuch, for with that final defeat, none aboard were cheerful. 

Since the weather allowed it, and his mind needed the occupation, Keith used the tiny desk in the cabin to compose letters of some importance, which he intended to post at the first opportunity. His first letter was short and impersonal, but it was hardly easy to write. 

_Dear Madam,_

_I will be plain, for fine Words could not soften the News that I must convey: your Son Thomas Moodie is dead. He was convicted of Desertion by a Court-Martial, and suffer'd the Punishment which the Articles of War specify for such an Act. I'll not offer my Condolences, for I think you might not wish to receive them from the Man who order'd the Firing Squad to shoot. With this Letter, I have discharg'd the Commission that he gave me, for his last Request was that the enclos'd Note should be sent to his Mother. I will allow myself the Wish that you have Friends and Family to give you what Consolation is possible._

_Your obedient Servant,_  
_Keith Windham, Captain_

A salutary reminder that no doubt, he was responsible for inflicting the same pain on others as he himself was suffering. 

Keith took out a fresh sheet of paper. Next, his family. 

_Dear Sir,_

_I hope that you and the Rest of the Family have surviv'd the War unscath'd, and that your Estate and the Household are not harm'd. I write you this brief Note to let you know that tho' I was on the losing Side of the Battles I have fought, I am neither injur'd nor captur'd, nor have I chang'd my Allegiance. Rather, I am currently on a Ship to the Low Countries, and will serve King George in Hanover. I do not know when, or if, I shall return, for the Life of a Soldier is such that it is difficult to make Promises, but I shall write to you again, and let you know what Turn my Fortunes take and where to address Letters to me, should you wish to reach me. I pray you, give my filial Greetings to my Mother, and I remain,_

_Your obedient Step-son,_  
_Keith Windham_

He had not asked him to convey any greetings to Francis, and Keith began a new letter. 

_Dear Francis,_

_If my Handwriting should be uneven, it is due to the Wind and Waves, for as I told your Father in my Letter to him, I am currently on a Ship bound for the Low Countries and thence to Hanover, in the Service of King George. I dearly hope that you heeded my Advice the last Time we met, and did not attempt to offer arm'd Resistance to the Rebels; and I hope you have not suffer'd Harm in any other Way._

_To tell you some Measure of Truth, I am unharm'd in Body, but not in Mind, for a very dear Friend has lost his Life in the Protection of mine, and I do not know how I shall recover from this Loss._

Here Keith paused, and read over the words he had written, shaking his head. He could not send this—Francis was but a boy still, and moreover, despite the warmth Keith felt for him, they had not met in over a year, before their brief meeting in London on the eve of that first, disastrous battle. What would he think of it? 

But if not Francis, was there anyone to whom he might speak, or write, something of what was in his heart, however little? No. There was not. That cynical detachment which Keith had thought served him well had left him almost without friends, for his acquaintance with his fellow army officers was not such as would bear the weight of emotional need. 

At last, with hesitation, Keith continued the letter—he could always discard it before sending it, should he change his mind. 

_Not that I imagine myself alone in the Pain of having lost Friends or Family, for I know that many have suffer'd the same Fate. But if there is any Comfort I can find, in the Shambles of this curst War, it is the Hope that you should be untouch'd by it._

_Your affectionate Step-brother,_  
_Keith Windham_

Keith stood up, to relieve his awkward posture, and pondered whether to go on deck for a space. He now had one, or possibly two, letters left to write, and he had left the most difficult for last.

No, he had best get it over with, and began by writing 'To Donald Cameron of Lochiel' at the top. 

_Dear Sir,_

_I will send one Copy of this to Achnacarry, where I know it will reach you in due Time, and another to the Army Headquarters in London, which is a more uncertain Address, but may reach you with more Dispatch._

_I had the Honour of being introduc'd to you in August, when I was the parole Prisoner of your Cousin Ewen Cameron of Ardroy, tho' I expect you might not remember me. By this Time, if you have not found out by some other Means what Fate has befallen your Cousin, I am afraid that you will be quite anxious about him, and it is to relieve this Anxiety that I write to you. But I regret to say that my News are of a most painful Nature, for your Cousin has died a violent Death._

_You perhaps know that I was the one who took Ardroy Prisoner in Edinburgh, and that he accompanied me to London, where he was freed from Prison after the first Battle. During our Time together, I came to respect and esteem your Cousin, even, tho' we were Enemies, to regard him as a true Friend, which Sentiment I know that he return'd._

_He was an unwitting Cause of my being, most untruthfully, suspected of Espionage by my own Superiors, and I know that he defied your Orders to ride to my Aid, so that I might clear my Name (which I happily succeeded in doing). But, after that, a Misunderstanding arose which prov'd fatal, tho' at the Time, none might have foreseen it._

_As you might know, Ardroy was captur'd again, tho' his Foster-brother Lachlan MacMartin evaded Capture, and followed our Army. He unhappily did not know of Ardroy's subsequent Escape, and by skulking round the Camp Fires, he heard that I had executed the imprison'd Ardroy to prove my own Loyalty, when, in Truth, the Execution was of a Deserter who in some wise resembl'd him. He swore Vengeance on me, which came to Fruition when we all three met by Chance (or mayhap by Fate), for Lachlan MacMartin, having aim'd his Musket at me, shot Ardroy by Mistake, when he attempted to dislodge me from the Path of the Bullet._

_I do not know whether your Cousin told you of the Prophecy which his Foster-father made, saying that he would do me a great Service, and cause me a bitter Grief. Indeed, my Grief is such that I do not know how I shall live to take Advantage of the Service he did me._

_Your Cousin now rests in the Churchyard at the Village of Gedney, for I appealed to the Vicar there to see that he receiv'd a proper Burial._

_I'll ask that you show this Letter also to his Aunt, Margaret Cameron, along with the separate Note I have enclos'd for her, and that, tho' I am your Enemy in War, you will believe that in all matters related to your Cousin, I remain,_

_Your humble, obedient Servant,_  
_Keith Windham, Captain_

_Dear Madam,_

_To the Letter address'd to Cameron of Lochiel, which is meant for your Eyes also, I wish'd to add my sincere Gratitude for the Hospitality I was afforded at Ardroy in August, and to offer you my heartfelt Condolences upon the Loss of your Nephew. I know that he regarded you almost as a Mother, and I can only imagine what your Pain and Grief must be. I hope that you'll accept these Sentiments from one of my Allegiance, for tho' we fought on opposing Sides, your Nephew had grown to be a true Friend to me, as, I hope, I was to him. I am sorry that he should rest so far from Ardroy, which he lov'd so well._

_Your humble, obedient Servant,_  
_Keith Windham, Captain_

Having managed to finish these letters, Keith rested his forehead on his arm, grateful that the weather was fine and his cabin-mates were on deck. There had been some measure of relief in writing to those who had also loved Ewen, for though they were Jacobites and had loved him as a family member, not as a lover, they would share in the pain of his loss.

Keith felt the imminent moisture of tears rising in his eyes again, and sat up. This would not do—he must take himself in hand. He would go up on deck, and acquaint himself better with the other officers.

With the leaden weight of duty on his shoulders, and none of the joy of it, he left the cabin. 

Keith Windham was offered, and accepted, a commission as major and a position on the staff of the Elector of Hanover's military command. It was perhaps fortunate that he had not been assigned field duty, for before the passage of time had blunted the keen edge of his grief to a constant dull ache, he might have been tempted to take risks that were too great, and let a French musket take the life that he would not let himself deliberately end. 

The Hanoverians were now in the same position as the Stuarts had been for so many years: constantly holding up their finger to the wind of public opinion in England, and of foreign affairs, and manoeuvring for the perfect opportunity to assert themselves once again and win back the crown which they still regarded as their own. Meanwhile, there were other wars, and their position among the German princedoms, to consider.

Major Windham was known as a competent officer, with a fine grasp of tactical thinking, and it was expected that he would be promoted in due time. But though he was civil enough, and had good manners, there was a reserve to him that none could penetrate. 

If his listeners could only have known, a key to it might have been discerned in his unexpectedly spirited defence of the Jacobite conduct in the war, which he offered to a fellow officer who had slandered them with second-hand, and inaccurate, information. This was heard with some surprise, but since his listeners knew of his loyalty to Hanover, and his bravery in defending the King's retreat, they did not suspect him of Jacobite sympathies, but only ascribed to him a keen sense of honour and a scrupulous fairness. 

Had they known of the scrap of tartan he always carried close to his heart, they might perhaps have drawn different and more sinister, though faulty, conclusions. But it was not to be expected that they should have hit upon the true explanation: that Major Windham, once a cynic who had rejected all bonds of affection, had found a love such as he expected never to find again, and, though he had lost it after too short a time, carried it still in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't seem unlikely that the poor deserter (I'm sorry for killing him off just for a plot device!) could actually read and write. I've read that Scotland was one of the most literate places in Europe in the 18th century, and according to one of my history books, a roll of recruits to one of the Lowland Jacobite regiments shows that most of its common soldiers could read and write at least their names, while the soldiers in a comparable English regiment could only put a cross by their names. 
> 
> As for that last battle, I did do some calculations to make sure it would be plausible. Wade's army were about 6,800 strong on 1st of December, but they really suffered from the winter and lost many hundreds to desertion and even death. They were in Wetherby on the 4th of December. I've tried to calculate marching distances, and it seems reasonable that they might meet up with Cumberland's army going north on around the 15th. The bit about the Dutch regiments is historical, but happened at another place and time in actual history, and would've lost them at least 2,400. 
> 
> Cumberland might've had maybe 9,000 left in total after the two battles for London, assuming that there were a lot of prisoners taken after the first battle for London, so the total Hanoverian forces could have been maybe 13,000, assuming Wade had lost some more to desertion. The Jacobites might've had 8,000 after the first battle, and were joined by maybe 5,000 French, so with these rough estimates, it seems the two sides could have been roughly numerically equal, although these numbers could of course have been affected by various other factors. But in this version, the Hanoverian side would have been demoralized by two defeats, which also contributes to their final defeat. 
> 
> Tapadh leat, a bhràthair = Thank you, brother.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] If Fate Should Reverse Our Positions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496216) by [Luzula (Luzula_podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula_podfic/pseuds/Luzula)




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